


Forsaken

by JenevaJensen



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Abandonment, Absent Parents, Angst, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Canonical Character Death, Child Abandonment, Commitment, Eventual Arya Stark/Gendry Waters, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Romance, Eventual Sex, Eventual Smut, F/M, Family Drama, Family Secrets, Friends to Lovers, Gendrya - Freeform, House Baratheon, House Stark, Identity, Inspired by Game of Thrones, Intimacy, Jon Snow - Freeform, Minor Canonical Character(s), Mutual Pining, Political Alliances, Post - A Game of Thrones, Post - Game of Thrones (TV), Post-Canon, Post-Canon Fix-It, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Reunions, Sansa Stark is Queen in the North, Second Chances, Secret Children, Single Parents, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Soulmates, Unplanned Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-21
Updated: 2020-10-24
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:07:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 108,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23775838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JenevaJensen/pseuds/JenevaJensen
Summary: The time Arya and Gendry spent together before the Long Night in 8.02 results in an unexpected pregnancy. Canon-compliant, original default timeline. Extending well-beyond the canonical end of season 8, this story contains much angst and mutual pining as the pair navigate their personal traumas and fallout from their choices. Is their relationship strong enough to withstand time and distance?
Relationships: Arya Stark & Gendry Waters, Arya Stark/Gendry Waters, Yara Greyjoy/Sansa Stark
Comments: 518
Kudos: 476





	1. Unexpected

**Author's Note:**

> Way back when I was almost at the end of writing **The Beauty in Deadly Things** , my mind kept traipsing down the 'what if' path regarding 2 specific questions:  
> 1) What if Gendry was less-than-truthful about having been with 3 women?  
> 2) What if their decision in 8.02 resulted in Arya becoming pregnant?
> 
> This story is the result of exploring those questions. Arya and Gendry are _very_ different characters traveling very different roads in this story compared to my previous series. Posting the first chapter on the 1-year-anniversary of the airing of _A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms_. What a year it's been. I hope you'll enjoy.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arya informs Gendry that their night together has unexpected consequences.

#### Tarth ◦ Nine Moons after the Long Night

Arya awoke to a flood of water between her legs, breathing heavily as she clutched at her belly. A knock came at her door. Laboriously she heaved herself out of the bed and slowly crossed the room, her Catspaw dagger clutched in her hand behind her. “Yes?” she enquired from behind the closed door.

A low, familiar, and relieved voice whispered, “Aly? Is that you? Ary?”

Sagging against the wall beside the doorframe she couldn’t help the tears that welled in the corners of her eyes. “It’s me.” She admired how he’d thought to use one of her other aliases—the one closest to, but not her own—to confirm. Not that she wouldn’t have known his voice anywhere. She slid the bolt and he opened the door, taking one last glance over his shoulder to verify that he hadn’t been spotted before gently closing it and sliding the bolt again.

“Are you…?” he asked, his words trailing off as she stepped into the moonlight coming through the window. This woman didn’t look anything like Arya.

“It really is me,” Arya’s weary voice said through the woman’s lips. “I did tell you that I couldn’t be me for a while. But I’d like to be me for this next part. Can you shutter and curtain the window and seal the crack beneath the door while I light a lamp?”

Gendry nodded slowly, his expression bewildered. His brain couldn’t reconcile the face of the woman standing before him with the voice that was speaking. He could see that she was short and extremely pregnant, but those were the only ways in which she remotely resembled the woman he’d been expecting to find. He found himself performing the tasks she’d requested mechanically. When the lamp finally flared behind him, after he’d knelt to lay blankets along the gap between the door and the floorboards, he turned and gasped: the woman was sitting at a small table, _peeling her face and hair completely off_. He surged to his feet and crossed the room, grabbing the woman’s shoulder and forcing her eyes to meet his own. It was Arya’s face that looked up at him now, apologetic, her brown hair damp and plastered against her scalp. 

“I _am_ me,” she said again. Gendry’s look of horror had faded to one of incredulity. His fingertips traced the lines of her face, his thumb moved across her lips. Her face scrunched as another, more intense pain cramped itself across her abdomen. She leaned forward, slightly, grimacing. 

“You’re going to have to explain _that_ ,” Gendry said, his brow creased in a persistent frown as he waved vaguely at the discarded face and hair, “But it looks like I made it here just in time.”

~

#### King’s Landing ◦ Five Moons Earlier

“Three,” Arya snapped at him accusingly, “Three was a lie.”

Gendry stared at her, his mouth pressed into a firm line. Arya stared back, eyebrows raised, hand hovering dangerously over the hilt of her Valeryian steel dagger, waiting. He thought the threat implied was unconscious on her part, but he couldn’t be certain. She’d nearly pulled that dagger on Yara Greyjoy no more than a few hours before. She was intimidating. And ferocious. He’d always loved that about her.

> _“Was that your first time?”  
>  “Wha-? I... I didn’t… I wasn’t with her.”  
>  “Were you with other girls? Before that in King’s Landing? Or after?”  
>  “…”  
>  “You don’t remember?”  
>  “… Yes. I was.”  
>  “One? Two? Twenty?”  
>  “I didn’t keep count.”  
>  “Yes. You did.”  
>  [HUFF] “Three.”_

She’d dragged him into an alcove beneath the dragon pit once the council had concluded. For some reason he couldn’t fathom, every time he caught her eye she seemed to be simmering and now these were the words with which she chose to greet him. If either of them had any right to anger--after their last encounter--Gendry felt it was him.

“ _That’s not me_ ,” she’d said, turning her back on him in favor of nocking another arrow. He’d stood there disoriented for several moments before retreating in silent bewilderment. She’d been gone by the time his anger flared and he’d tried to find her. Now, resolved to present a stoic version of himself, trying desperately not to reveal his lingering pain, she was angry with him and he had no idea why.

“In all the time we’ve known each other…,” he began, irritated, but Arya cut him off.

“I can’t make decisions based on lies or half-truths,” each word was measured, drawn precisely, weighed. He could tell there was far more to it than that.

“What decisions are left to make?” he asked, wearily. “You made them all at Winterfell.”

“Just answer the fucking question, Gendry! Truthfully, this time.”

He huffed, rolling his eyes, “One.”

Arya looked at him incredulously.

His mouth twisted as he took in her disbelief and he repeated, more firmly, “One.” He could tell she still wasn’t getting it. He explained, his cheeks flushing, “Before the Night’s Watch—in King’s Landing—I didn’t because of where I’d come from. All I knew was that a man took my mum in a tavern and I knew what growing up a bastard was like. And after… When I said I wasn’t _with_ her—the Red Woman—that was true. I won’t say she didn’t make me want it, at first, but she turned it into something else. Something corrupt. Nothing like what happened between you and I. So, after her… I couldn’t. Didn’t trust anyone enough to want to. I won’t pretend there weren’t some pretty girls to touch and kiss—there were three. But only one, Arya. There’s only ever been one. You.”

The façade she was working so hard to maintain slipped, just a little. She hadn’t expected…none.

Her tone softened slightly and an understanding of… _something_ …twigged in her eyes, “Why’d you say three, then?”

“You wouldn’t quit badgering! I’m man enough to own my stupid pride! We’re not supposed to say, ‘none.’ It’s not supposed to make you want us.”

“And…you _wanted_ me to want you?” she sounded sincerely curious.

Gendry spluttered incoherently for a moment, “You’ve always known how to make me wrong-footed! You think quicker than I do. I could tell you were thinking badly of me—and I _didn’t_ want _that_. The more I tried to explain about the Red Witch the more every answer seemed wrong. I didn’t know I wanted you like that until you showed me that I did. But once I knew, it was like adding fuel to a spark that had been nearly extinguished inside me for a long, long time.”

Silence stretched between them. Gendry could see her thoughts twisting behind her eyes. “Do you…still…feel that way? Even after…?” she held his eyes, unrelenting but somehow tentative and, rather unexpectedly, apologetic. 

Gendry sighed and leaned back against the wall, “Seems to me I was pretty clear about everything the night I asked you to be with me. Like I said, Arya, I don’t know what’s left for you to decide or how this conversation makes any difference. You made your decision.”

She took a step closer to him, her face suddenly apprehensive, “It wouldn’t change my answer, but… I didn’t know then what I know now. I’m pregnant, Gendry.”

It was only the once. One time. Was it really possible…? He’d been her first. She’d made that blazingly clear. _She_ wouldn’t lie. Not about this. Not to him. She’d never lied to him from the moment he’d acknowledged her disguise: she’d dropped every pretense. The candor between them existed _only_ between them. 

Gendry stared at Arya, staggered by the words she’d uttered. His mouth gaped; he was speechless. He thought that he probably resembled a fish gasping for air and closed his mouth, swallowing desperately. She’d masked her expression again. She was closed off as if she were a stranger. But she wasn’t. Most definitely wasn’t. There wasn’t a person alive in the world he’d ever been closer to.

> He’d asked, low and tentative, as her fingertips spread her lips apart between them and he’d held himself at her entrance, “Arya…are you sure…?” and instead of allowing him the time he’d wanted to take—to be gentle, stretch her out, make himself accustomed to the feel of each inch of himself inside her—she’d nodded and tilted herself onto him. He’d watched her face, enraptured, as she pressed herself down his length. Her brow had furrowed, and her eyes had closed at first, and she’d sucked in a breath; she felt so tight around him. But then her neck arched, her teeth catching her lower lip, and with a breathy sigh her eyes had opened fixing on his as she settled completely against him. He’d wanted to move, but instead they sat, joined, breathing one another’s breath and kissing until she’d finally moved against him. He’d shuddered, his breath jagged, and she’d smiled against his lips. He was amazed he’d held out as long as he did—surrounded by her—but she’d made a softly high mewling sound in her throat and arched into him and he’d held her hips fast, groaning into her neck as he’d felt himself coming apart. Her heartbeat had been racing and he’d felt the pulse of it against his lips and cheek. She’d allowed him to hold her against him for a time, but as their bodies cooled, she’d risen and gathered his cloak and her own, and lain down beside him, spreading the cloaks over them both for warmth. He’d fallen asleep, and when he’d awoken, she was gone.

She was still studying him, one foot tapping impatiently at the cobblestones. “Well?” she asked, one eyebrow raised.

“How long have you known?” he croaked.

“Not long. I had other matters cluttering my days. Wasn’t really thinking about it being a possibility. I think Sandor knew though—part of why he convinced me to leave him in the Red Keep. He was a more perceptive shit than most gave him credit for and we’d travelled south together for a month. To someone who thought to look for them, I suppose there _were_ signs…” she acknowledged grudgingly. 

Gendry recalled The Hound’s uncanny understanding of what he’d thought to be his own well-concealed plans the last night he’d seen them both at Winterfell. He groped after the meaning in her words, “Signs you didn’t recognize? Signs you ignored? Or signs you dismissed?”

Arya’s jaw clenched. “I’ve been injured more than once in the past three and a half months. Couple of head wounds. Could chalk most of the symptoms up to that. It was never a possibility before. Quite frankly, I didn’t think we’d get out of Winterfell alive so it never crossed my mind at the time that there might be…consequences.” 

“Does anyone else know?” he asked.

“I’ve seen a maester, but he didn’t know he saw Arya Stark. I concealed my identity,” she explained, hedging the details. “I’ve run out of time, though, Gendry. I can’t hide it any longer. I need to…”

All the liquid rivers of thought boiling through his brain suddenly melded together and dropped like a hammer on his heart. Gendry grabbed her by the arms and shaking her, demanded, “Why tell me if it’s a decision you still have to make, Arya? Do you hate me that much?” His fury was growing. “I fucking _love you_ and you’re standing here telling me that not only am I not allowed to love you, there’s more to the life we could have had together than I’d imagined but I can’t have that either?! Seven _bloody fucking hells_!” He let go of her suddenly and turned, smacking his fist against the wall repeatedly, trying to vent his anger. 

She grabbed his arm, trying to prevent him from battering himself. 

“Stop! No! Stop, you idiot!” she commanded, holding his bloody knuckles tightly between her own hands. “That’s not _at all_ why I’m telling you! For some reason beyond all reason I survived the unsurvivable _twice_ in a single moonspan. That’s insane, Gendry! Do you realize how insane it is that I survived the Long Night doing what I did _and_ the destruction of King’s Landing given how far up that bloody Red Keep I got before Sandor told me to leave him and go? And then I was foiling plots by the fucking Unsullied and Dothraki trying to keep them from killing Jon before Sansa could get you all here and we could hold this bloody council! If any _one_ of those things had gone awry, I wouldn’t be here and all we’d ever been to each other would be ashes. But it looks like we’re going to make it out of this alive now and I’m tired of death, Gendry. I’m _so tired_ of death.”

“Wha-? What’re…? You saying…you want it?” Gendry asked, his shoulders still heaving, his voice low and uncertain. 

Arya’s face tightened. She shook her head sharply before clarifying, “The question right now is: do _you_ want it? Because if you do this is your chance to claim it.”

“I want it,” Gendry stated emphatically, without a trace of hesitation. “I want _you_ , but if all that’s on offer is our child, I want _them_.”

Arya’s heart ached. She didn’t think she could live the life he wanted…but if the gods let her, she could give him this. Her shoulders slumped, and she said, resigned and relieved, “I can’t be a mother, Gendry. Any more than I can be a wife or a Lady. That’s not me. I’m not trying to hurt you—then or now—by saying so. It’s just the truth. But I can have it for you.”

The fury of hurt still simmered in his eyes as he studied her, but he nodded, curtly.

“To do that, I’m going to have to be someone else for awhile,” Arya continued, “And that means Arya Stark has to go somewhere so that all of Westeros isn’t wondering where the ‘Bringer of the Dawn’ disappeared to. I have all these siblings ruling all these kingdoms and they’re bound to send ravens to one another eventually asking questions if I try to play them off against each other. So, I’m telling everyone ‘west’,” she said with a faint and disillusioned smile. 

“Come to me, then,” Gendry offered, a tendril of hope sprouting in his voice, “You can be ‘not you’ at Storm’s End.”

“That won’t work,” her eyes were sympathetic, but her tone was brittle, “You move a woman into the Keep and several moons later she has a baby that she hands off to you and then disappears? It would go better for you to come home with one unexpectedly than for us both to live that charade. Besides, I don’t think you could pull it off. You’re not a spontaneous liar.” She paused, and met his eyes gravely before continuing softly, “And you love me too much to hide it.”

“So where, then?” he asked gruffly, acknowledging her words with a small tilt of his head, turning his face away as if the stone walls that surrounded them were suddenly fascinating.

“Tarth is close. I’ll sail away from King’s Landing and take a launch to the shore as we pass Tarth. The ship can trade in the Summer Seas for a few moons. I’ll send word and you can come, if you like, when it’s time. Then… after… maybe I’ll really go west.”

Gendry felt a lump forming in his throat. ‘West’ sounded so…final…the way that she said it. “But you’d want me with you? When it’s time?”

She nodded and gripped his hand between both of hers, squeezing. “I may not be able to love you the way you want me to love you. But I do love you,” she whispered fiercely before pressing her lips to his hotly for several agonizingly wonderful moments. Before his mind could catch up, she pulled herself away, heavy-lidded and shuddering, and rushed from the alcove. He stood dazed, staring blankly at the place she had been for more than an hour before he could bring himself to depart. 

~

Arya raced through the catacombs underneath the dragon pit, knuckling away tears from the corners of her eyes. 

Damn him! Damn him and his good, unwavering heart. She couldn’t believe she’d said those words to him. She certainly hadn’t intended to. She’d worked herself up into righteous anger over what lay between them in order to sit across from him today and then he’d said something unexpectedly tender and endearing with such sincerity and simplicity that caught her completely off-guard. How fucking _dare_ he!

Her anger flared again—briefly—for a moment as she owned that it was all to the good that the Red Woman was dust in the winter winds. She had been jealous of her for so long and she’d been surprised that having finally had him herself, she hadn’t felt at all threatened by the woman’s sudden appearance at Winterfell. But his words had brought something home to her today that she hadn’t realized at the time: the Red Woman had used and hurt him like Ramsay Bolton used Sansa; as Meryn Trant had once used and hurt young girls. The Red Woman would be at the top of her list if she were still alive—and if she still had a list. 

She came out of the tunnels into the air: her steps slowed, and she became master of herself once more.

> _“Only one, Arya. There’s only ever been one. You.”_

The words sent a shiver down her spine. She _really_ hadn’t expected that. But… _but_. His answer had also made everything else she hadn’t understood about that night make sudden sense.

> She’d hovered over him, holding his face in her hands, devouring his lips for what seemed like ages. He’d run his hands over her body, fingers tickling shivers along the back of her thighs and flanks. When she’d ventured away from his mouth for too long, exploring farther down his neck and chest, he’d pulled her mouth back to his—his eyelids heavy with desire but eyes always searching—making certain she was still okay. Kissing him had dazzled her—he was _very good_ at it. Eventually she’d perched on his lap and he’d grasped her arse solidly, massaging it as she ground herself against him. It all felt wonderful. Better than she could ever have imagined when touching herself. And when at last she’d felt ready, she’d lowered her hand between them, the heat and wetness of her arousal seeping as she parted her outer lips. He’d asked, “Arya, are you sure…?” and she’d never felt more sure about anything. It had felt odd, impaling herself upon him: he felt _so large_ —but at a certain point his cock touched something inside her that made her bite her lip and arch her neck and she’d heard his breath catch so she’d opened her eyes searching for the reason why as she sank the last precious inches against him and found the answer in his steady, loving gaze. She’d felt so struck by it that she’d leaned her forehead against his, breathing in his breath, savoring the fullness of him inside her. He’d caught her lips again, eventually, and as his tongue, teeth, and lips played their game against hers, the spirals of longing that wound their way downwards through her belly made her move against him. He’d shuddered, gasping, and then his hips had begun flexing under her, slow at first but then more rapidly. She clutched her arms around his neck and it seemed as though she were in pursuit of something fluttering nearby—just out of reach. Before she could grasp it—her breath catching in her throat—his face had contorted and he’d pulled her hips tightly against his. He’d buried his head into her shoulder, groaning, and she’d felt him pulsing and hot inside her. She’d tried to keep moving—what she wanted was _so close_ —but he was strong, and in that moment he had wrapped her against him so securely that she couldn’t. He pulled her down against his chest, stroking her back as their sweat cooled, their heart rates slowed and their breathing steadied. When his arms loosened, with a shiver of goosebumps rippling over his flesh against the cold of the room, she’d rolled away and gathered their cloaks. He’d opened one arm to her, welcoming her back. He’d stared deeply into her eyes, tracing her lips and features with his thumb before drifting to sleep. She’d lain beside him, thinking, for what was probably too long before she’d risen again, dressed, and prepared for battle. 

She knew what she’d been chasing that night and it had the potential to be so much more than she’d ever experienced rolling her hips against her mattress or fingering herself. She’d felt it building between them and then it had fizzled away completely. And he hadn’t noticed. Had he actually been with any other women, she didn’t think he’d have missed that fact. She hadn’t regretted bedding him—not for a moment—and if he had come to her that second night wanting—not proposing—but _wanting_ more of her—she’d have shared another night and many more with him. Arya snorted. Maybe it was being deprived of that sensation that had kept her alive—hoping that she’d be able to chase that feeling with him again if she survived the battle.

But then he’d been stupid. And she’d known it was better to deny him (and herself) and leave rather than hurt him worse by making promises that she knew she couldn’t keep. Maybe it was knowing she couldn’t that had sent her running from Winterfell towards Cersei and destruction.

And now… 

She paused, settling her hand, cupping it tentatively against her lower abdomen. Part of him was there, still inside her. She’d been carrying him around with her all these weeks. She’d thought he was just in her head and her heart but a tangible piece of him had been taking root elsewhere—silently—all along.

> _“I can be your family.”_

She’d said that to him, once. It seemed the gods had heard and were going to make good on her offer. 


	2. Expecting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Disguised, Arya abides on Tarth awaiting the arrival of her child.

#### Tarth

Arya’s ship departed from King’s Landing amid much fanfare. That night, as they’d sailed past Tarth, she’d taken a skiff and rowed herself ashore—putting on a face before she’d landed. She’d posed as a refugee from King’s Landing—a young widow. She’d considered looking for work at Evenfall Hall, but realized there were too many people there who might mark a visit by the Lord of Storm’s End. Instead, she took work in a bay-side tavern to the south. It was managed by a stern woman named Gilda who allowed “none of that bawdy business” under her roof and ensured such was the case by tramping about the tavern wielding a stout club. The woman had looked doubtfully at her when she’d enquired after work, but she’d spun her story well and the woman had taken her on as a trial. They’d need of workers—the Golden Company had wiped out many of the men and left many and more of the girls of Tarth in the same predicament as Arya—or had taken them along as camp followers who had never yet returned…if they ever would. Only now she wasn’t Arya: she was a straw-haired, brown-eyed, tavern wench named Aly whose husband had burned in King’s Landing. 

She got on well-enough with Gilda once she’d proven that she was willing to work hard, didn’t consume drink herself, and was able to fend off grabby-hands with firm politeness. As her belly swelled, Gilda let Aly tend the bar rather than serve at table and Arya found that she could keep an ear to the ground for rumors. She often found the gossip amusing—especially when it involved anyone she knew:

> The new King had imposed a law stating that women could attend the Citadel and become Maesters—or ‘Maestras’ as they were dubbed. Oldtown was in uproar. He’d also decreed—in tandem with the Queen of the North—that serving in the Night’s Watch would no longer be a punishment, would be open to women, and that jointly the North and the Six Kingdoms would fund its existence. The Wall was no longer tasked with preventing wildling incursions—only unnatural ones.
> 
> King’s Landing was rebuilding.
> 
> The new Master of Coin had made any Dothraki who wished to stay on in Westeros welcome in his lands—providing they didn’t maraud villages or enslave anyone. That offer had been met, apparently, with less-than-middling success and many of the remaining Dothraki continued to raid back into the Crownlands, the Riverlands, The Reach, and The Stormlands. It was reportedly fomenting tension within the Small Council.
> 
> The Queen of the North was engaged to the Lord of the Eyrie. Then she wasn’t. Then she was. Then she was engaged to the Prince of Dorne. Or not. Because she was allying herself with the Greyjoy Pirate Queen to help facilitate the Iron Islands’ independence—creating an unholy alliance of frigid women in the North. 
> 
> The Master of Ships was hiring on anyone who could sail to man his rebuilt fleet.

And then…the new Lord of the Stormlands was going on progress to get acquainted with his holdings. Rumour was that he’d be recruiting amongst his bannermen for aid with the Dothraki problem as he toured. His visit to Tarth was less than three moons away. 

Arya felt the inhabitant of her belly do a sudden barrel-roll. One hand automatically pressed itself back against the sensation as she tried to manage her breathing. She hadn’t considered how masking her reactions might be compromised by the small being inside her. Her heart-rate sped up. She hadn’t wanted to count on it, but Gendry’d kept track: he’d found a way, and he was coming himself. 

~

#### Storm’s End

Gendry painstakingly counted the moons, plotting his own disappearance. It was going to be harder than he’d supposed. He was still trying to prove himself to his advisors and they were able men, but he found his freedom of movement as curtailed as it had been when he was apprenticed. He missed the luxury of choice that he’d experienced in the years between his escape from and return to Dragonstone. He thought maybe the Free Folk had the right of it after all. But he was stubborn and determined. He wanted what Arya’d promised him more than he wanted any of the nonsense he found himself dealing with on a daily basis as a Lord. But of course, he also recognized that providing for the child would be infinitely easier in his new role than it would have been as a lowly, unwed smith: it was imperative that he not shirk his newfound responsibilities. 

He’d asked his maester—a man near Ser Davos’ age named Ormund—to be on the lookout for any messages arriving from Tarth. While seeking refuge in the forge one afternoon, the man interrupted him with a scroll containing a drawing and seven words: a picturesque thatched tavern—"The Sapphire”, “This is my wish,” and his mum’s name—“Aly”—scrawled in Arya’s hand. 

He'd held the scroll, his hand shaking slightly. He remembered sharing bits about his mum with Arya as they travelled the King’s Road north to The Wall and after they’d escaped Harrenhal—both before and after meeting the Brotherhood. She’d chosen to use that name and live a life close to his own earliest one while she waited to have their child. He wasn’t certain what game she thought she was playing, but he acknowledged that her clues were specific enough that he’d understand the message without revealing her true identity to anyone else. The maester was regarding him with polite curiosity. Giving the man a short nod of his head in thanks and dismissal, he crushed the scroll in one hand, and turned back to the anvil. As Ormund’s steps faded away, Gendry smoothed the drawing out, tracing his fingers over her words and the name. Ary, Arya…now Aly. He whispered, “As you wish, milady.”

~

#### Tarth ◦ The Sapphire

“Good man, was he?” Gilda asked her one day when things were slow, setting a cup of tea on the bar in front of Aly and motioning for her to take a seat, “Your man?”

Arya nodded, bringing the cup to her lips and taking a slow sip, allowing her to stitch the straight-line of her story in her mind before replying. She knew that a good improvisational masque was made by sticking as close to the truth as possible—it lessened the chance of errors if questioned later. “A better man than I deserved, really,” she answered quietly. _‘That’s completely true,’_ her mind whispered reproachfully.

Gilda tutted, “You aren’t afraid of work, don’t complain, and aren’t one for chatter. Most men would give their left-hand for a woman like that. How’d you meet?”  
Arya’s—Aly’s lips twitched, “He stood up for me against a bully in the streets. I was just a girl then.”

“You’re just a girl, _now_ ,” Gilda scolded. “And where’s he at? Dead. Who’s to stand up for you? You and the little one coming?”

Arya set down her cup with a decided clatter, “That’s hardly _his_ fault,” she admonished the older woman. _‘You’ve got that right! It’s your own,’_ the voice in her head mocked again. Gilda looked affronted but her expression quickly turned abashed, “No. I suppose it’s not,” she said, contrite. She bustled off towards the kitchens, all companionability set aside by her guilty remorse. Arya picked up her cup and took another sip. He was a better man than she deserved. The voice in her head was right. He deserved better than someone as closed off and brutal as she’d learned to be. She’d meant it when she’d said that any lady would be lucky to have him: he deserved a lady. But she envied that lady more than she wanted to admit, even to herself.

Several weeks later, when she’d started having intermittent pains, Arya had also started to have serious doubts about her plan. How long would it take for Gendry to find her? She knew he was supposed to have arrived on Tarth already but what if he couldn’t get away? What if she died doing this before he arrived? Would he even find the child if she died? Would someone uncover her disguise before burying her? And she hadn’t factored in Gilda growing fond enough of her to want to provide assistance during the birth. Would she actually have to give birth sweating under another woman’s face? Was she forever and always doomed to keep acquiring people who cared about what happened to her? Who’s care then obliged her to have a care for herself when all she really wanted was to disappear into a world where she was obliged and indebted to no one? 

Her mind wandered. She’d seen in their eyes how shocked they were by who she’d become—how disbelieving—awestruck _and_ horrorstruck. They still felt bound to her by their memories of her—of their shared family. As she did to them. But they’d all changed. After all this time fighting to avenge the ones they’d all lost and preserve those still alive, none of them could recapture what was. There were gaps that couldn’t be filled. Family felt impossible. Arya shook her head trying to banish the downward spiral that threatened to engulf her, forcing herself to examine the present problem and not the one perennially hovering over her like a storm cloud. 

Fortunately, she didn’t sleep in the tavern with Gilda. There were rooms over the stables for staff. At present, Aly and a stable boy for the horses were the only staff Gilda employed. Arya managed, for two days, going about her chores and duties trying her best to hide any signs of discomfort from Gilda. Much earlier than usual on the second evening, however, the woman tapped her shoulder as she worked behind the bar and told her to get off her feet. 

“I don’t think you can be much farther off, now, luv,” she said, “Get some rest. You’ve a hard job ahead. And send the boy with word when you want the midwife.” Arya wondered how she was supposed to know when or if she needed a midwife—like so many other things her body had faced, she thought it would just have to figure it out for itself as she went along. 

She’d fallen into an exhausted sleep for several hours before the discomfort became too great and now, suddenly, Gendry was here. The flood of relief that accompanied the sound of his voice beyond her door…she wasn’t expecting that.

“It looks like I made it here just in time,” Gendry observed.

Arya nodded through clenched teeth. “And you’re going to have to explain that. But could you help me back to the bed first?”

He helped her to her feet and they shuffled back across the room. Once she was situated, he went about rousing the fire in the hearth, pumped some water into the kettle, and swung it over the flickering flames to boil. “Nice place you’ve got here,” he said, to fill the silence between her deep breaths, “Nicer than my mum had. A water pump _and_ your own hearth.” 

“Are you upset that I used her name?” Arya asked.

“No,” Gendry admitted, “Surprised. Not upset.”

“How’d you get here?” she asked, once she’d breathed through another pain. 

“Went riding a few days ago. Stashed the horse Lord Selwyn loaned me, changed clothes and hired another in a neighbouring town to the east. Sent Selwyn’s free to roam and rode off south on the hired nag. Went one town farther south first to stash the nag, then picked my way here as fast as I dared without drawing attention. It was a bit of a walk, but…” he watched her face contort again.

“Took the long road again,” Arya observed, a wry note in her voice.

Gendry’s frown cleared. It was her. “I get that this may not be the best time for me to ask for explanations, but could you please tell me how the fuck you were a completely different person when you opened the door just now?” 

The side of Arya’s mouth tugged with beleaguered amusement. “In Braavos. I found Jaqen H’ghar. He trained me as a Faceless Man.” Gendry’s eyes widened and he blanched slightly. She look she shot him was full of challenge. “I served in the House of Black and White until I could understand what brought men to the Many Faced God. They beat me until I could lie without any tells. They took away my sight until I learned how to see with my other senses. I nearly became No One. But underneath it all I was still me. Arya Stark. And I couldn’t stop being me—my Stark sense of justice held on too strong. I couldn’t deal death without judgement.” She sounded disappointed, but not contrite. 

Gendry heard the water boiling in the kettle. Using the poker beside the hearth, he swung it away from the flames so that it would stay warm, but not boil dry. 

Arya continued, “You saw my scars. One of the other acolytes tried to kill me and failed. That’s when I found myself and found my way back to Westeros and my way back to my list.”

Gendry scoffed, “That bloody list!”

Arya locked eyes with him across the expanse of the room. Her voice was low and dangerous as she revealed, “A quarter of the names on that list were added for _you_. Melisandre, Thoros of Myr, Beric Dondarrion, The Mountain: all there—at least in part—because of _you_. The fact that _I_ didn’t kill them just means that there wasn’t time. Two of those names I could have taken out the night you planted this babe inside me. _I chose_ to do that—I wanted to be with you—more than I wanted to cross another name off my list.”

Gendry was staring at her, his entire being frozen in shock. She could feel her womb clenching, but she found herself able, in this moment, to focus beyond it. _‘Why not?’_ asked the voice that continually nagged at her, _‘Why not tell him everything? Repulse him. Make him understand that you’re not some orphaned little highborn lady that needs his protection.’_ She continued, tallying her kills, “Slid Needle between the ribs of Rorge and Polliver. Did in Meryn Trant in a brothel in Braavos: stabbed him until he squealed like a stuck-pig. Took out Walder Frey and his feeble-minded, turncoat sons too.” Gendry’s eyebrows had met his hairline. “Heard about that one, have you? ‘The Feast of the Freys?’ Just had to wear that puckered arsehole’s face for a few days in order not to arouse suspicion. Of all those thirteen names I only chose to give Sandor Clegane a pass and even he’s dead. Everyone is dead. Maybe not by my hand, but for most of them that’s only because someone or something else got them first.” She drew in a shuddering breath. It felt like a vise had clamped itself around her middle and was squeezing hard. She felt compelled to bring her legs up, her hands scrabbling for purchase behind her knees as she leaned forward into the pain.

Gendry’s mind was racing. She was lethal. The pained little girl he’d befriended hadn’t saved them all at Winterfell with good timing, loyalty and sheer plucky luck. The woman he loved was deadly—had a range of skills he’d never imagined and had learned and practiced them—in part—to avenge _him_. He’d watched her practice her archery, her waterdance; he’d seen her skill with knives firsthand and watched her twirling the spear he’d made for her. But he hadn’t quite fully processed until now how much was pastime and how much was passion. He found himself feeling immensely proud of her—his heart expanding to embrace this new secret knowledge of her. 

He swallowed and took giant strides across the room. She was panting, blowing breaths that gusted across his face and as he sat at the foot of the bed, he leaned forward to clasp his own hands over her knees. Her eyes rose to meet his. She was furious, but underneath the fury he could see that she was terrified. Not of him—but of what she was doing. And yet, she was doing it. 

He reached with one hand to smooth her hair off her sweaty brow and her eyes softened—quite unexpectedly. She nuzzled her face into his palm and closed her eyes, savoring his touch briefly. Then another pain seized her and she grunted, leaning forward. 

“Should I…?” Gendry’s eyes darted downwards, brow raised, silently indicating the drape of her nightgown. 

Arya nodded frantically, and groaned, her neck straining as she pushed. 

He lifted the hem of her gown slowly and was greeted by a headful of black-hair crowning between her thighs. He sucked in a breath. This was a completely different experience to the last time he’d seen this much of her. His startled eyes flicked back to hers. Around her clenched teeth she ground, “It burns. What’s happening?”

Gendry marveled, “There’s…a lot…of hair.” Arya’s mouth compressed in a tight line and the look she was giving him made him blush and rush on, “The babe’s hair! I can see the head. Hair’s black—like mine—and there’s a lot of it.”

Arya’s brow furrowed. She nodded and breathed heavily for a moment before her face scrunched again. She’d reached out towards him, grabbed onto the arms he held braced against her knees. Gendry could only watch her struggle and words came unbidden to his lips, “You’re doing so well. I love you. I’m here. You can do this.”

She didn’t respond but she also didn’t throw him any dirty looks or whack him, so he continued murmuring whatever came into his head as her nails embedded themselves in his upper arms. Suddenly she let go and reached down, her fingertips brushing over the baby’s hair before they spread and began massaging the skin on each side of her opening.  
“Does it help?” he asked, quietly, his blue-eyes wide.

Arya sucked in a breath and nodded.

“I can…?” he offered tentatively, and she nodded again. 

He knew better than to let on, but he felt his cock twitch as his knuckle took up the massage on one side while she continued with her fingers on the other. He was fascinated, watching the child appear gradually each time her body tensed and pushed. Whenever her fingers ceased, he made certain to stop his own movements as well. Each time he’d managed to match her rhythm she squeezed his other arm. This brought his eyes back to hers, where he was rewarded with the deepest gratitude he’d ever seen. For being here. For not letting her do this alone. 

He never could have imagined _any of this_ when they’d met. As he watched her now, breathing in tandem with her, that first meeting replayed itself in the recesses of his mind. How Hot Pie had backed into him as he glowered and threatened, the young boy he’d stood up for standing anxious and sad—but triumphantly thankful--behind him.  
A sudden heave shifted everything and brought his thoughts fully back into the present. Arya’s breath caught and she whined—the hand that had been between her legs sought his shoulder, pulling herself forward further. His eyes widened as the baby’s nose came free of her body, followed by its lips and chin. There was _such a lot_ of black hair. Gendry thought he could likely club it up in the back--as Arya did herself. Arya shuddered and collapsed backwards against her pillows, her chest heaving. 

“The head’s out,” he said, rising to pour warm water from the kettle into a pot and fetching a cloth to wipe her brow. She grimaced at him—it wasn’t remotely a smile, but he thought it likely was the closest thing she could muster. “They say that’s the hardest part, don’t they?” he asked. 

Her left eyebrow rose and she eyed him sardonically, replying, “Have you _seen_ your shoulders? Because _I have_ and if _this_ has _yours_...” the look she was giving him said plainly that she was rethinking every decision she’d ever made about him in this exact moment. 

He shrugged, drawing only more attention to that specific body part. “You seemed to like them well enough when I was testing swords and wielding hammers…and…and when you were astride me that night,” he added daringly. 

“I wasn’t…” she rejoined, groaning, “trying to shove them anywhere then.”

“Yes, you were,” he teased, his eyes now sparking with the memory of her hands clutching at him as her lips and tongue devoured the lines of his muscles and collarbone.  
She glowered at him again and he sobered as she doubled-up once more, a long and peevish, “Aaaargh!” emanating from her. 

It took what seemed like hours for one shoulder, and then the other to dislodge themselves from inside her, but once they had done, everything seemed to speed up. Gendry was holding the baby’s head and shoulders steady and sweat was pouring off Arya as she gave one last final push and, with a rush of fluids, the child finally slid free. She watched Gendry’s face as he lifted the child away from the sodden bedding, cradling the blood-streaked and naked infant. The baby was squalling, loudly. Her heart broke into a thousand thousand pieces as his beaming face looked up from the baby’s into hers and gleefully announced, “A boy! We have a boy, Arya!”

“Cut him free,” she reminded him, her voice scratchy and low with exhaustion. 

Gendry spied the Valeryian steel dagger on the table. He placed the baby briefly back on the bed and rose to retrieve it. While his back was turned, Arya glanced down at the child. He was Gendry. Everything about him was Gendry—except for the copious amount of hair that brushed the baby’s shoulders; his hands—which were more delicately fingered; and—when he suddenly opened his eyes straight into hers—his eyes which were the exact shade of grey as her own. She closed her own against the sudden onslaught of feeling, recognizing some of herself in someone completely _other_.

By the time Gendry had turned back with the dagger, her head was resting on the pillow, face turned away toward the door, her eyes closed. She double-checked—through slit lids—that he remembered to tie off the cord. He had, and she found herself wanting nothing more than to sleep. 

“Arya?” Gendry whispered, his voice warm and reverent, snuggling the baby close to his chest, “What should we name him?” 

She didn’t reply. He bent, brushing his lips across her forehead, one of his hands smoothing her hair off her face and behind her ear. “There aren’t words,” he murmured. He cleared his throat before continuing, his voice low and tender, “But this…Arya. Thank you for our son.” He kissed her again, lingering as if hoping she’d wake and be with him in this moment. She couldn’t. It was all she could do to keep herself from succumbing to the shaking tears that were pooling behind her eyelids. She wished he would just _go. Now._ And she wanted him to stay. Wanted more than anything to feel able to want him the way he wanted her to want him—to want _them_. 

Gendry gazed helplessly around the room. Should he stay? Should he take the baby and go? They hadn’t talked through this part. He knew his part of the plan inside out but he didn’t know hers and—more than that—he simply didn’t _want_ to go. And he certainly couldn’t just leave her like _this_. Exhausted and lying in blood and sodden bedding—as though she didn’t matter at all.

He swaddled the baby more tightly and with one arm, moved to bundle the sheets from beneath her, but at the first tug, Arya opened steely eyes and shook her head firmly.  
“No. It has to look as if I hadn’t any help. As if the babe were born dead.” 

Gendry’s eyes widened and his face blanched, “But…how…?”

“The container from under the fourth floorboard to the right of the hearth.” 

It had occurred to her, before she left the ruins of King’s Landing so many moons before, that there would need to be evidence of a newborn—she couldn’t just be pregnant and then not produce a baby. She was no Red Woman giving birth to shadows. That would draw unwelcome attention. But King’s Landing was full of the dead. Most of them ashes, but many and more had died from the smoke in the air days and even weeks after the fires had faded. Resolved, after her meeting with Gendry, she’d procured one such infant. The initial preservation process was not unlike working on the harvesting of faces in the House of Black and White. 

As Gendry knelt to the loose floorboard, Arya gingerly shifted in the bed, shimmying the sheet from beneath her. She winced. She was sore and every movement of her hips brought additional leakage. A soft thunk, brought Arya’s eyes across the room to Gendry. He’d removed a small wooden crate from its hiding place and she could see that he was considering whether or not to open it.

“Don’t open it. Bring it here. And then go. The both of you,” she instructed, her voice tired and utterly lacking emotion. 

Gendry hadn’t moved. “But…Arya…”

“No.” The cold numbness of her voice drove a fresh dagger into his heart. “The terms haven’t changed, Gendry. Go. Please.”

He replaced the floorboard and then stood. In three strides he had placed the wooden crate along the foot of the bedstead and gathered their child into his arms once again. He stood before her, studying her face, his expression a storm of stubbornness, frustration, adoration, loss and regret. Arya held his gaze, impassive, unapologetic, and unyielding. At long last, Gendry heaved a sigh and bent to reach into the pack he’d slung by the door. He fumbled inside of it for a moment, one-handed, before tossing a cloth-wrapped bundle onto the bedside table. 

A shuffle and knock sounded outside the door. “Aly?” a young voice piped, questioningly. 

Gendry held his breath glancing down at the bundle now sleeping in the crook of his arm. He had no idea how long he’d been here. Was it still night? He realized that the fact that he couldn’t tell meant that he’d done a more than adequate job of blocking the window and door. 

The knock came again, louder: “Aly? I thought I heard a baby’s cry? Are you alright? Aly?” The voice was becoming more concerned. When there was no reply to the persistent knocking, the steps suddenly rushed away, clattering along the walkway and down some stairs. 

Gendry grabbed Arya’s resisting hand quickly and pressed her palm against his lips. “I love you,” he said again, firmly, to her unrelenting silence before turning, slinging the pack over his shoulder, and kicking away the blankets from the bottom of the door. Unlatching it, he glanced out, quickly ascertaining that no one would see him, before stealing away into the early morning shadows, the baby clutched tightly against his chest. 

By the time Gilda and the stable boy rushed back to her room, Arya’s agony was muted—masked behind the face of Aly once again. She’d barely managed everything necessary before sprawling herself across the floor between the bed and the fireplace. She had to make it look as if in her loss and grief, Aly had passed out after burning the body of her stillborn babe. 

Gilda pulled her up into her arms and sent the boy after the midwife. She was slapping her face lightly but firmly and asking, worriedly, “Aly? Where’s the baby? Aly? What’s happened?”

Arya groaned, feigning that she was coming around slowly and sobbed, weakly hysterical, “Ashes, Gilda! Just like it’s father. Everything’s ash and pain…” She heard Gilda inhale a horrified gasp and watched the woman’s eyes widen, aghast as she took in the smoldering bundle in the hearth. Arya did ache physically, but the real hurt pulsed through her with every beat of her heart and she meant the words only as distraction. More than anything else, she could feel herself going, blessedly, numb.  
Arya moaned again, letting her eyes flutter back into her skull, pretending a faint. The longer she could go without answering any questions, the longer Gendry had to make himself scarce. Gendry. This was about helping him get away. _Them_ get away. Arya felt her own face harden with determination under the mask of Aly’s…that was the only item left on her list: abetting Gendry’s escape. A tiny distant voice in the deepest recesses of her mind acknowledged that from the day they had first known each other, that had always been her goal. 

~

#### The Stormlands

Tarth was buzzing. The Lord Paramount had arrived at Evenfall Hall and after a few days of meetings and feasting had gone out riding and disappeared. No one knew where he’d gone. Lord Selwyn combed the grounds surrounding the Hall and the villages nearby hoping that they would find him drunk or merely injured and not dead. But after three fruitless days of searching, he sent riders out to towns farther along the coast and across the island. That was when they’d found the horse Lord Baratheon had ridden out upon, grazing in a ditch several miles east of Evenfall Hall—but no sign of the Lord himself. 

When the Lord of Storm’s End reappeared, at the gates of Rain House, seat of House Wylde on the south mainland coast of Shipbreaker Bay, he was staggeringly drunk. He’d been invited inside, given a bed, sobered, cleaned up, and fed before he’d asked Lord Wylde to send a raven back to Lord Selwyn with his apologies. Then with an escort and borrowed horse, he rode home to Storm’s End. Within a moonspan of his arrival there, a woman with two infants—one patently her own six-month old and another much newer baby for whom she was clearly the wet-nurse—appeared at the gates and were ushered directly into the Lord’s private study. Rumours spread like wildfire. 

Not one person who saw the younger baby doubted that it was Lord Baratheon’s—aside from the eyes which were a peculiar pewter grey—the baby was the image of him. The wet-nurse—Sella—told anyone who asked how she came to work for him that, “milord’s business is his own” and would remark casually that it was a grateful widow who could find a way to provide for her own child in these wearing times.

In truth, Gendry had been on good professional terms with her husband in King’s Landing. Her man had done work that was complimentary to Gendry’s—he’d constructed the leather and fur elements for armor and the pair had found themselves working closely more than once. Gendry had gone in search of him after the dragon pit council, hoping to be able to offer him work, but found the man’s devastated and visibly pregnant widow instead. He’d known her before, and liked her. Now he could help her and—more than that—he needed her help too. Once he’d received the raven’s scroll from Arya, he tasked Sella with relocating to a coastal cottage south of The Sapphire Tavern. Her presence there provided him the means of constructing his escape route. After leaving Arya, he’d taken a night’s refuge with Sella, sleeping with the baby curled up on his bare chest. Within a day, he’d reluctantly handed the baby over to Sella for safekeeping and begun rowing himself across the strait to the seat of House Wylde where he’d poured several drinks down his throat and one over his clothing before approaching the gates. Let them think their new lord a drunken sot like King Robert before him, he’d thought to himself. He didn’t owe anyone an explanation for his whereabouts. They could conclude anything they liked based on the clues scattered like sand across the coasts of Shipbreaker Bay. 

~

#### West of Westeros

The candelabra swung shadows swirling around her cabin as the ship rocked on the waves. Arya watched the flickering lights glance along the lines of the three exquisitely-crafted throwing knives lying beside one another on the desk before her. She’d never seen anything like them. She didn’t know how he’d done it, but she knew for certain he’d crafted them himself. 

It was the gift he’d tossed onto her bedside table in the aftermath of…everything. In the chaos and confusion, she had stuffed it into the same hiding spot as Needle at the first opportunity. It was only now, physically recovered from the birth and safely aboard her ship, that she brought it out to examine thoroughly. The entire construction was elegant: three perfectly weighted knives that fused together into a single blade with a ring and cone that when unlatched, allowed them to be drawn singly, as if from a sheath. When grouped together into their single blade, the hilts fused together into an egg-shaped dragonglass pommel. When separated, she could see that etched inside the dragonglass were the sigils of House Stark, House Baratheon, and one of a tiny hammer and anvil crossed by a delicate needle-like sword. One dagger representing each of them. 

Arya felt a lump forming in her throat. He’d put a lot of thought and careful effort into designing and creating this for her. He was a gifted craftsman. He hadn’t just gotten better; he was an artist. She thought back to his expression as she’d thrown the rough dragonglass daggers into the post in the smithy at Winterfell. He’d been impressed. This gift from him, having been made before she’d taunted him with her kill-list and her reasons for acquiring those deadly skills, made the lump in her throat ache. Not once had he ever appeared repulsed by her: skeptical, shocked, impressed and even strangely proud, but never repulsed. Three-as-one. It was the embodiment of what he wanted most from her in the world. One Baratheon, one Stark, and the child they’d made all together as one: a family. 

_“I’ve never had a family…”_ she heard him say again in her memory.

She clicked the pieces together and pulled the clamping ring tight, as tears formed in the corners of her eyes. She cried easily these days. The numbness that entombed her following the child’s birth hadn’t subsided. It was as if the entire world around her were muffled and distant. But then, out of nowhere—when before everything she’d have felt a surge of motivating anger—she’d now feel the welling of an incomprehensible sadness which always threatened to engulf her. She shook her head swiftly and wrapped the blade back into its cloth before stowing it away.

She’d never really intended to go west—but the all-consuming emptiness that suffused her entire being made her rethink. She had nothing. No purpose. No reason. No list. West—the Sunset Sea—held nothing. And no one. She’d been in search of death for so long that she was reasonably certain that it was the only thing left to her. The child’s surprising presence inside her had staved off that impulse for the past several moons—but that presence was gone now and she was utterly alone again. 

She stood and brushed the tears from her eyes before taking a breath, setting her shoulders, and striding out of the cabin. She would go out on deck and breathe in the salt-tinged air and _make_ herself forget. Or die trying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is angsty and bleak and I'm sorry (but I'm also not).


	3. A Member of the Pack

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gendry returns to Storm's End with their child as Arya sails, but there are deeper connections than any of them realize.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANK YOU so much to everyone who is reading and commenting on this story. Your remarks and encouragement mean so much to me. Once again, I apologize in advance for the angst, but hope you'll hang in with me.

The Lord of Storm’s End was an enigma to his councilors. He was never backward about asking for advice when he suspected that he needed it, but he wasn’t at all forthcoming about the questions that puzzled them most. He was the most stubbornly reticent man they’d ever encountered—and many of these men had known (or at least met) Lord Stannis. He was certainly a change from Lord Renly. Gone were the parties, dancing, masques, and frivolity. Their new lord wasn’t explicitly against entertainments of this sort—as Stannis had been—but he didn’t indulge in them either. Feasts and holidays were marked and celebrated, but always for the pleasure and respite of his people rather than his own amusement. In truth, the new Lord Baratheon seemed to take real enjoyment in only two things: the forge and his infant son. 

To their horror, he’d insisted on holding hearings and councils with the baby held snuggly in the crook of his arm most days. He was loath to be away from the child for any amount of time. He’d insisted that the nursery be established in the Lady’s chambers across the corridor from the Lord’s so that he could get up in the night to help tend to the boy himself. (These being the only two apartments available on that floor of the Round Keep.) The baby was very good—a quiet child who alternately slept or gazed out at all comers with a furrowed brow as if studying all the proceedings himself. He’d be whisked away to the sidelines for feedings and clout-changes, but Sella would inevitably deliver him back into Gendry’s waiting arms before retiring to care for her own son. 

Gendry had Maester Ormund send a raven to King Bran immediately upon the baby’s arrival. What it said was only speculation amongst the other councilors and bannermen of the Stormlands, and Maester Ormund certainly never confirmed or denied any of the rumours—he was a circumspect man who knew where he owed his loyalty. Nevertheless, what was certain was that a raven came back from King’s Landing and was read aloud in the Round Hall for everyone to hear:

> _My Lord Baratheon,_
> 
> _It is with great joy that Bran the Broken, the First of his Name, King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Six Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm congratulates you on the safe arrival of your son. You say he is a healthy child whose features bear much resemblance to your own, and for that you may be certain that we give thanks to the Gods, Old and New, for all such blessings bestowed._
> 
> _It lies within our own power to grant one further blessing, as you have requested: that of legitimacy. Henceforth, the child shall be your legal and legitimate heir of House Baratheon, Storm’s End, and the Lordship of the Stormlands, superseding any other children of your blood yet to be born to you—inside or outside of wedlock._
> 
> _May all the gods watch over you and yours with the same steadfast fidelity that you have shown._

The letter had borne Bran’s seal and signature and as both were displayed to the assembled throng, astonished gasps echoed around the hall. Gendry held up a hand and the murmuring crowd silenced itself at once. He stood, planted his feet shoulder width apart, clasped his hands behind him and affirmed, “I am grateful for King Bran’s ruling on this matter. I will make myself quite plain: I will not wed and there will be no further heirs until such time as my son grows to manhood and makes his own.” Muttering broke out unevenly through the crowd again but Gendry plowed on, “That is my firm intention and I wish for no further speculation on this matter.” 

Striding from the room, Gendry’s thoughts were on the post-script that had not been read aloud but was instead excised from the bottom of the scroll and clutched tightly in his closed fist: _“We thought perhaps it would be Ned, but Hart is…apt.”_

The words unsettled him. _What did Bran know_?

~

One moon led to another, and as Hart began to creep, crawl, stand, and totter about the Keep, each milestone filled Gendry with awe. He’d never spent a great deal of time around infants before and he quite rightly assumed that most doting parents thought their own offspring remarkable. Maybe, he thought, his fascination grew out of not having had the privilege of his own parents’ attention throughout his childhood. He had no intention of spoiling the child, and he was never one to gush or brag, but he was quietly and fiercely proud of the boy. He recognized, also, that he keenly felt he needed to fill the gap where Arya was supposed to be. He knew what having an entirely absent parent was like. Robert Baratheon, though legendary, had formed no part of his own self-image until he was a man grown. And his own mother, although present in body for his earliest years, had, by necessity of survival, never been as fully available to him as he intended to be for Hart. 

Some nights, after watching Hart fall asleep, Gendry would take himself to the forge. There, he found ways to expel the fury and resentment that he could feel mounting towards Arya. He was grateful— _so very grateful_ —that she’d given him their child. But he was also furious with her for denying them both. For depriving their son of knowing her and of preventing herself from knowing their son. He wanted each for the other, and could admit—selfishly—that he still wanted her himself. Nobody else had ever quite _mattered_ to him the way she did. Nobody else except Hart. Pounding steel through the night, Gendry began, reluctantly, to understand how Robert Baratheon had lost himself in drink and women. If he’d felt half of what Gendry felt for Arya for her aunt Lyanna… Well, it explained—but could never excuse—his conduct. Gendry wouldn’t make those same mistakes: habits such as Robert’s would only hurt himself and his son. So, instead, he hammered and scorched, melted and quenched until he regained equilibrium. 

~

Accounts had circulated for years about a pack of wolves led by a great beast roaming the Riverlands. The tales had mutated and grown and, from time to time, a roving adventurer would turn up claiming to have lost his horse, or his companion, to the monster. Gendry had never put much stock in these rumors, but the year Hart turned three there was a noticeable and sudden shift in the geography and tenor of these tales: a group of men claimed to have decimated the pack in the Riverlands, and they were able to produce a quantity of pelts to bolster their word. The beast, it seemed, had beaten a retreat into the Stormlands. 

He’d taken a few men to go out and search after farmers began appearing in the Round Hall complaining about losses to their herds and flocks. They’d spread out in a fan pattern from the area in which the most recent sighting had occurred. Gendry had stopped momentarily to refasten one of his bootlaces when a snuffling sound brought his eyes up, straight into the muzzle of what he knew from experience was a direwolf. He’d known Ghost and been cautious, but never frightened, of Jon’s pet. But this wasn’t Ghost. He froze, still kneeling, on the ground. The animal was sniffing at him curiously but didn’t appear at all threatening. Gendry breathed out slowly as he studied the creature. This direwolf was _magnificent_. The wolf took a step closer to him, lowering its head but holding his eyes. He couldn’t look away—there was something very nearly human—and very sad—about the wolf’s eyes. He inhaled suddenly as a thought occurred to him and then breathed out a single questioning word, “Nymeria?” 

The wolf’s head cocked to the side briefly before it nosed itself into his shoulder, licked his neck, and pushed him backwards. He let himself fall. The wolf darted away backwards and then returned, carrying something in its maw. A pup. The direwolf placed the pup on the ground in front of him, nosing it toward him. He felt dumbstruck. Was the wild wolf trusting him with her young? He stayed completely still until the wolf whined at him and nosed the pup closer. Gendry reached out one hand cautiously and the larger wolf backed away, head down, as if nodding at him. He risked stroking the pup’s head lightly once, his eyes never leaving those of the elder direwolf. 

A crack in the underbrush nearby made the direwolf’s head turn suddenly and a growl rumbled from her chest. The animal’s eyes flicked back briefly toward Gendry and the pup. The sound of branches snapping sent her into motion. She darted to Gendry and nosed the pup against his knees with a keening whine before dashing away into the trees. He scooped the pup onto one arm and held the warm furry little body close as he stood. Out of the underbrush, one of his men appeared, bow drawn. Gendry waved his free arm in a peaceable greeting before glancing helplessly back into the woods, hoping the direwolf would make it safely away. 

Returning to Storm’s End, he’d taken the pup to be examined by his Master of Hounds who had marveled at the wolf’s behavior. “Never met a direwolf before m’self, m’lord, so I wouldn’t know, but from the looks of this wee fellow he’s a cross-breed: part grey wolf. He’s larger than their pups usually are: bigger feet, more fur. Who knows what he’ll look like or how big he’ll get. But he’s healthy enough. What’re you going t’do with him?”

Gendry already knew exactly what he was going to do with him. He’d never likely know for certain, but he believed with all his heart that the wolf had been Arya’s Nymeria, and for some inexplicable reason she’d chosen to seek him out and leave her pup with him. The only answer he could fathom was that this pup was meant for Hart. 

In the morning, before breakfast, Gendry stole into the nursery, waking Hart and carrying his warm, sleepy body across the corridor to his own solar whispering, “A present’s come. A very special present. One you need to take great care of.”  
The idea of a present had wakened the boy up immediately and the sight of the pup lying in the basket by the hearth made him clap his hands excitedly and struggle out of Gendry’s arms. His small hands stroking the pup’s head gently, he looked up at his father exclaiming, “His fur’s so shaggy! And soft! He’s for me? He’s _much_ bigger than the kennel puppies! What’s his name?”

“You choose.”

The boy thought, his brow furrowing adorably. Peering up at Gendry he asked, “Where’d he come from?”

His words steady, but his heartbeat quickening, Gendry answered as matter-of-factly as he was able, “Your mum sent him.” He watched Hart’s eyes grow wide with surprised delight. ‘Mum’ wasn’t a completely undiscussed topic between them, but she was more of an idea or a story than an actual person. Gendry’d resolved to give ‘mum’ an identity that Hart could absorb—not leave him rudderless—as he, himself, had been left growing up. Given the boy’s age, however, he’d been reluctant to share any details about her that might compromise her if Hart were careless and repeated what he said to others. 

“My mum sent him?” Hart asked, his eyes searching Gendry’s. 

“I think so,” Gendry said, his throat tightening at the joy in his son’s grey-eyes, “I can’t understand how it all makes sense otherwise.” 

Hart picked the pup up and snuggled him, pressing his cheek into the animal’s soft fur. A pink tongue darted out of the pup’s mouth and licked his nose sending Hart into a fit of giggles as he wiped the saliva from his face. Gendry smiled widely. 

“You said my mum’s a hero,” Hart mused, studying the wriggling pup before looking up again to his father. 

Gendry nodded, “I did. She is.”

Hart’s dark head bobbed and he said decidedly, “I want to call him Hero.”

The reports of beast-sightings in the Stormlands stopped nearly as quickly as they’d begun. Nymeria seemed to have disappeared and the Beast of the Riverlands was spoken of no more. 

~

Arya woke with a start. The seas were calm and the ship silent. She’d been having one of _those_ dreams again. She lurched out of her bunk scrambling for the chamber pot and was sick. When she was certain she was finished, she went to the washstand to throw some water over her face and rinse out her mouth. Rubbing one dripping hand under her hair, over the back of her neck, she found the coolness helping to settle her. Throwing another splash of water over her face, she reached for a towel and moved to gaze out the windows at the wake. 

The dream never felt like memory or wistfulness—it never even felt quite like her—but this time there’d been more of it. For weeks now it had always started the same way:

> _She’d felt herself being taken from behind in the woods, a visceral pleasure, and the bite of teeth against her neck. A crossbow bolt embedding itself in a tree beside her—and then another ‘thunk’, a high-pitched yelp, and a crushing weight on top of her. Scrabbling. Scrambling. Fear. Fury. Desolation. Running._

Usually the crushing loss was what woke her, but tonight, the dream had continued.

> _She was laboring, alone in a close green thicket, panting and whining, and the babes had kept coming and coming and coming—a whole litter of them--each of them dead except for the very last. As she’d looked helplessly at that sole surviving being, not knowing how she was ever meant to care for it, the scent of him surrounded her—his sweat mingled with leather and the tang of metal and smoke--her mind had screamed his name…_

And she’d woken up. Some of that powerless vulnerability had triggered her own memories and that was what propelled her out of bed, her stomach lurching.

It was three years since she’d left Westeros and still nightmares plagued her, keeping her sleepless and watchful in the depths of the night. On very rare occasions her dreams were intensely pleasant and she’d come awake with his name on her lips, her sheets tangled, and her insides quivering. But awakening to deprivation always made her inconsolable. Her body aching for his hands on her breasts; for his hands…everywhere…so she’d caress herself into oblivion trying furiously to stamp out the ache. But then she’d feel sour and angry with herself for days afterward. And the fact that her resting-mind remained convinced that he was a particular fixed point of calm in the stormy seas of her psyche frustrated her beyond measure. _Why_ couldn’t she let him go?

Let _them_ go. A shiver ran over her as she felt again the echo of the final dream-baby leaving her body. She’d given them to each other. Wasn’t that enough?

~

It was stormy and the gale-force winds blasting in from Shipbreaker Bay made the waves crash so loudly against the break-wall that Gendry found himself sleepless. He couldn’t help but think of _her_. What were the seas doing wherever she was? Was she safe or had her ship foundered or met with calamity somewhere? Would he ever see her again?  
Most of the time he was fine. He was preoccupied with the ongoing raids of untethered Dothraki across the lands for which he was responsible; the concerns, health and welfare of his people; and, most importantly, raising his son. From time-to-time he would take himself off to the forge in the dead of night to bash his frustrations away or to create something functional, beautiful, and _tangible_ that he could see he was making progress on. However, tonight he was far too unsettled for that.

Silently cursing his abiding preoccupation with her, he pulled on his boots, threw a cloak over his shoulders and crossed the corridor to peep in at his sleeping son. The storm didn’t seem to bother him—but then, he’d spent his entire life dreaming against the sounds of their fury. Gendry watched the boy’s chest rise and fall slowly in the muted glow from the fireplace. The quiet calm of the nursery eased something in his chest, but he found that his body and mind wouldn’t succumb to the restful space: he needed to be out and moving. Closing the nursery door silently, he went out and climbed the stairway to the topmost level of the Keep’s tower. The wind buffeted his cloak and howled around him, rain and sea spray deluging the ramparts in equal measure. Gendry planted his feet and let the storm rage around him. This was what he’d needed: to feel like the calm in the center of a storm, not like the bull about to rage.

> _“All we’d ever been to one another would be ashes…”_
> 
> _“I may not be able to love you the way you want me to love you. But I do love you.”_

She’d said both those things to him: one so off-handedly that he doubted she’d realized how much it meant—how it would resound in the depths of his heart years afterward. That she’d internalized that she meant something to him and he meant something to her and felt compelled to preserve it. Make it _not_ ashes. She’d spoken the second so passionately that her tone rang like a cascade of feast-day bells from the sept, each time he recalled them. That and the defiant look in her eyes from her birthing bed, daring him with the knowledge that she’d intended to kill _for him_. She actively loved him. It was that action that made him unable to let go. To give up. As he probably should. But when he considered the alternative, he couldn’t help but picture Robert turning to his own mother, to Cersei, to any wench he could, trying to drown-out the woman he’d lost. How unfair it would be. Gendry shuddered involuntarily at the idea and Arya’s voice crept across the back of his mind on precisely placed cats-paws: _“That’s not me.”_ No. It wasn’t him. He heaved a sigh against the wind, then trudged, once again, to his lonely bed. 

~

Hart Baratheon landed a heavy blow, knocking the practice sword out of his opponent’s hand. As the weapon flew away through the air Rawly cried, “I yield!” his hands up and an unfazed grin bringing dimples to his plump cheeks. 

Hart grinned back, one side of his mouth pulling slightly wider than the other as he crowed triumphantly at his friend, “I knew I had you! You’ve _got_ to get smoother on your feet!” 

“Not everyone is as graceful a swordsman as you are, my lord,” the master-of-arms commended him, “Your father’s an excellent warrior, but he relies on his strength rather than his speed—you’re fortunate to be blessed with both.” Collecting their weapons, the man dismissed the boys from their training for the day and the lads left the practice ring laughing, arms thrown companionably across one another’s shoulders, Hero gamboling along behind them. They veered off towards the kitchens, knowing themselves to be the darlings of the head cook. She’d been expecting them and Hart gave Maryse a hearty kiss on the cheek before stuffing several apple scones into his pockets and mashing one into his mouth. Knowing her boys well as she did, Sella appeared moments later, cuffing Rawly on the back of the head and scolding them both: “Maester Ormund is a busy man and your lessons won’t keep!” Choking back suppressed laughter, both boys fled from her words up the winding stairs to the maester’s cell.

Over supper at the high table in the Round Hall that night, Gendry’s eyes twinkled as he watched Hart’s face a-shine with eagerness, recounting every move he’d made in his bout. The boy’s whole life, Gendry had felt relieved--but often quietly sad--that his boy didn’t much resemble his mother, but whenever he’d taken the opportunity to watch the boy spar in the ring he’d seen her shadow rippling in the motion of his swift body as he lunged and feinted. And now, watching the light in his grey eyes as he talked about swordplay and his lopsided twist of a smile, he could see only Arya. 

Ten years since he’d seen her. 

Ten years. 

Ten. 

And his heart still swelled and broke afresh each time the ghost of her manifested in their son.

He cleared his throat, trying to dislodge the lump that had formed there and Hart broke off mid-sentence, his left-brow rising inquisitively at his father’s suddenly gloomy expression.

“There’s something…I’d like some time with you tonight before you turn in,” Gendry said quietly, looking out at the crowded hall, raising a gracious cup to one of his bannermen. He looked back at Hart, “In my solar. Tell Sella that she’s to let you wait up there for me.” 

The boy nodded his understanding, chewing a mouthful of food and swallowing before replying, “I’ll let her know. Just me? Or can Rawly come?”

“Just you tonight.”

Hart smiled at his plate. When Da said it was going to be just them in the evening, he knew what that meant: stories about _her_. 

Hart loved hearing stories about her. When he was younger, he used to ask when she was coming home. He’d soon learned that question only made Da gloomy and he’d be told, “I don’t know, mate,” before shortly thereafter being informed it was time for bed. He’d recently begun to wonder whether Da even knew if Mum was alive, but he knew that was a question he’d never actually ask. 

When other children asked where his mum was he’d always just shrug and say, “She’s on an adventure.” Once, one of the farrier’s lads—Olly—had taunted him, called him “milord bastard” and said his name ought to be Storm. Hart had coolly approached the boy, taken his upper arm in a firm grip, and replied, “I’ve not had the luck of meeting _your_ parents, but I’m not standing out here in the street slandering _them_ , despite your lack of manners. Perhaps you’d like to introduce me?” Olly had spluttered apologies as he was frog-marched to his parents’ shop where, more subdued, he politely introduced “Young Lord Baratheon” to his surprised parents. Hart had greeted both of them with good-humour, and asked if Olly’s father would mind dropping by the Keep’s stables to examine the state of his own horse’s hooves. No further insinuations about his parentage ensued and Olly had become another close companion.

But a question that had never before occurred to him, began to niggle at the back of Hart’s mind. With each evening spent listening to Da’s tales, whether or not he was, in fact, wed to Hart’s mother was not something Hart found himself able to parse. Maester Ormund had detailed his paternal lineage and it was as clear as the ears sticking out the sides of his round-faced head and his shaggy black hair that he was his father’s child-by-blood. As he grew older, he learned about the missive from King Bran that arrived following his birth. He’d even examined it himself from the Maester’s archive. It seemed to allow for his father to have other children without diminishing his own claim…but Da evidently wasn’t inclined to do so. Nor had he ever witnessed his father courting, or attempting to court, any of the many ladies that visited Storm’s End. Some of _those_ , Hart reflected, seemed to want him to _very much_. Nevertheless, his father remained steadfastly loyal to his mother despite her continual absence. 

That evening, as they sat together by the fire in Gendry’s solar, Hart mustered the courage to ask, “D’you think…if she was here…would I have brothers and sisters?”

Gendry’s eyes widened slightly, and he blew out a breath before replying, “To be honest, mate, we didn’t set out to have _you_. I’d never had a family until you came along. Your mum and I found each other again in the face of the worst, most terrible threat Westeros had seen in more than a thousand thousand years. And— _somehow_ —we both survived all Seven Hells worth of the terrible things that came. Then you were born and, for me, you seemed like a reward for surviving. A gift from the gods, Old and New.”

“But she didn’t see me that way?” Hart asked.

Gazing fixedly at the fire in the hearth, Gendry responded, “I can’t answer for how she saw you. I’m not her. But, unlike me, she’d known what family was and lost it. Lost so much of it, over and over again, when she was not much older than you. I think that made her scared of having anyone else to lose. Anyone else who could make her hurt that way again.”

Hart took a moment to fully consider his father’s words: it wasn’t that his mother didn’t love him—didn’t love _them_ —so much as she was deeply afraid of losing them. 

A wry smile pulled at the corner of Gendry’s mouth suddenly, and he added, “She couldn’t help protecting people, couldn’t keep herself from stomping her foot and standing up for others. But she couldn’t see that fierceness as something loving. When it was. Soft voices and gentle hands aren’t the only way to show someone you care.” Gendry’s eyes met his son’s, “She’s someone who’s always needed a cause—something to fight for. Maybe…” his voice trailed off. 

“She didn’t want to fight for us?”

Gendry shook his head decisively, “No. That’s not it,” he replied, “She knew she didn’t have to and she didn’t know what to do with that. She’d conditioned herself to resistance and rebellion and death. The idea of existence and acceptance, _life_ …,” he shrugged—not lightly or dismissively, but deeply in earnest, “I made a mistake. I thought I needed to be more than I was to deserve her. I didn’t and I couldn’t see that. Exactly the same way she couldn’t see that I’d have everything I’d ever wanted if I could just be with her. We were both stupid and stubborn. Both of us wanting to be better than ourselves for the other person. Both of us thinking we weren’t—could never be—enough as we were. Don’t make that mistake when it’s someone you love, mate.”

Hart turned Gendry’s words over in his mind. It didn’t exactly answer either of the questions he’d raised, and yet…it did. His parents had mattered to one another. Whether or not they’d made a formal commitment to one another when he was conceived…well…it _didn’t_ matter. He was the legitimate heir to Storm’s End, his father honoured his mother, and his father loved him. Everything else was wind.


	4. The Ties That Bind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hart Baratheon's existence is revealed to the members of House Stark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've mentioned this in replies to some of you, but I often save your wonderful comments to read when I'm having a day of struggle. I appreciate Every Single One. Please know how much your feedback and encouragement means to me. And I see your crying emojis and broken hearts too--stick with me if you will--there's turmoil and angst and growth yet to be done, but I promise this has a happy ending.

Hart entered his father’s privy chambers off the Round Hall, with Hero at his heels, and silence fell. A short, dark-haired, brooding man dressed mostly in heavy furs was standing across the desk from Gendry. He was studying Hart with an intensity that made him feel uncomfortably seen. The man’s widening eyes darted to Father’s. Hart saw Da nod once, his expression slightly sheepish. Father was giving way to this stranger in a way he’d never seen before. Other people always deferred to Da, but for the first time, Hart saw his father defer completely to someone else. It stopped him in his tracks and he stared silently at the two men across the room. 

The man in the furs motioned him forward saying gruffly, and with a distinctly northern accent, “Come closer boy. I may be the so-called Wildling King—the Queen-Slayer from Beyond The Wall—but I don’t bite.”

Hart gasped. He knew exactly who this man was: Jon Snow—the former King of the North who’d taken Da north of The Wall to capture a living deadman to bring back to the Lannister Queen; the man who’d killed the Dragon Queen after she’d set fire to King’s Landing the year he was born. Taking a step closer he asked eagerly, “Did you bring your direwolf with you, my lord? I have a half-breed one myself.” Hart gestured to Hero who snuffled up against his hand looking for hidden treats. 

Surprise lit Jon’s face again but he smiled kindly as he replied, “Fine-looking animal, too. Ghost stayed behind, beyond The Wall. Most people, most places, find him frightening,” Turning back to Gendry, Jon asked, between clenched teeth, “ _Where_ —by all the gods—did you find _him_?”

Hart watched his father stand taller under Jon’s stare and straighten his shoulders before answering, “Nymeria brought him. Hart named him Hero. For his mother.” Father’s eyes were locked on Lord Snow’s as if he was telling him something more silently than what he was saying aloud. Jon looked incredulous. His eyes darted from Gendry to Hart to Hero and back in a circuit that lengthened, and which Hart began to find felt more and more uncomfortable. He looked searchingly at his father. 

“I’ll see you at supper, son,” Gendry said, dismissing him calmly—with more calm than he truly felt if he were honest. “Go find Rawly. Take Hero out to stretch his legs this afternoon. We’ll talk after supper.”

Hart nodded obediently and offering a polite, “It was good to meet you, my lord,” he bowed slightly in Jon’s direction, turned, and left the study. 

Jon stared at the closed door for a full minute before turning again to Gendry and demanding, “Explain. All of it.”

Gendry gestured to a chair and held up a flagon of ale asking silently if Jon wanted some. At his nod, Gendry poured him a generous glass, passed it over and then poured another for himself before leaning back against the sideboard. He took a sip. Eyed Jon warily. Took another sip. “He’s hers.”

“And _yours_. I gathered that much,” Jon said, gruffly exasperated, over the rim of his cup, “He’s got her eyes. Father’s eyes. _Stark_ eyes.”

“We…I…” Gendry had known eventually he’d have to explain himself to one Stark or another, and he’d always known it would never be an easy conversation. But here he was in the midst of it and he couldn’t help but think he should have prepared for this moment better than he had. He looked again at Jon who continued to appraise him stoically. Resigned, he sighed and tried again, “Hart’s eleven. He was born nine moons after the Long Night. On Tarth. She told me she was pregnant at the King’s Council.” Jon didn’t interrupt, but inclined his head once, indicating that he was taking in everything Gendry was saying. Gendry continued, “When Davos brought me to you, all those years ago, it felt like it was exactly where I was supposed to be. You connected me to her. I thought she was dead. Hoped she wasn’t, but thought she likely was. When I saw her again at Winterfell she was different, but _we_ were still the same.”

Jon cleared his throat. 

Gendry understood what he wasn’t asking. “We weren’t ever like… _that_ …before. She was a kid, Jon. She was alone and broken and miserable and I was a surly arsehole with a chip on my shoulder—both of us looking to take on any and all comers. But she had my back and I had hers for nearly two years. We trusted one another. There was this one conversation…” he trailed off lost in the memory for a moment but was brought back into the present by Jon tapping his pewter cup gently with his fingernail. He shook his head sharply and met Jon’s eyes, “She wanted me to go to The Twins with her. To serve Robb instead of staying with The Brotherhood like I’d told her I intended. She was hurt…and angry with me. I told her I was tired of serving men who didn’t seem to care about the men doing the serving. You know what happened after that.”

Jon nodded, “They sold you. To Melisandre.”

Gendry shuddered and sank into the chair behind his desk, scrubbing a hand through his hair and leaning back. “She was right. I _should_ have gone with her. Maybe if I had…”

Jon set his cup down on the desk. “Melisandre would have found you wherever you were if she believed her Lord of Light wanted it so. And she used any of us however she saw fit to make her Lord rise again. Didn’t matter--smallfolk or highborn; Warrior, Smith, or Stranger—we’re all puppets in her Lord’s service. As the dead were puppets in the Night King’s.” His tone was bitter. 

Gendry recalled that Jon had his own reasons to mislike the Red Witch. Jon continued, his voice taking on a censorious tinge, “So how did it get to be… _like that_?”

Gendry felt his face flushing. This was the moment the man across from him was no longer his friend, but Arya’s best-beloved elder brother. He took a long pull from his cup before picking up his tale, “At Winterfell. She’d grown up. She came to the forge wanting me to make her a spear. She teased me and I teased her and it felt…right. Righter than anything else I’d ever known. I made her the spear. And when I took it to her the night before the battle, I told her who I am—Robert’s bastard boy. She had questions, _so many questions_ and then…” he trailed off for a moment searching for words that would explain what that moment had felt like. “She kissed me and it was the opposite of seeing the dead marching, Jon. More of me was alive than I’d ever been before.” 

The low-pitched awe in Gendry’s voice and the way his face was suddenly shining, made Jon close his eyes and pinch the bridge of his nose. He couldn’t look at the man’s face watching him remember that moment with his sister. It was too intimate. But he remembered feeling that way for someone. Someone he’d lost irrevocably. He swallowed against the lump forming in his throat and then growled, trying to dislodge it. Taking the growl as a threat, Gendry hurried on, “I asked her to marry me. That night after Daenerys…” seeing Jon flinch, he altered course, “She wouldn’t. Said she’d never be a Lady— _‘that’s not me’_ —and turned away. Didn’t see her again until the Dragonpit.” 

Jon snorted. “ _That_ sounds like Arya. She’s said that all her life. Her mother’d be haranguing her—or Sansa—or their Septa and she’d run out to us in the tilt-yard and let fly an arrow or pick up a sword and trounce Bran or Rickon just because she could. She was older and better than they were—more interested than Bran ever was too—and she’d been watching Robb, Theon and I for years. Father never minded her saying that—his sister had been the same.” A beleaguered look passed over Jon’s features. Gendry noticed Jon’s eyes darting away from his own suddenly—as if he was hiding something. He watched the other man thinking to himself for several minutes in silence. Eventually Jon met his eyes again declaring decidedly, “Look, Gendry: you’ve got a secret. I’ve got a secret. They’re secrets that speak to one another so I’m going to tell you mine.” 

Gendry sat up straighter in his chair, leaning in towards Jon, his face solemn. “I’m not Ned Stark’s bastard. I’m his nephew: Lyanna Stark’s son with Rhaegar Targaryen.” Gendry’s eyes had widened and he’d leaned back against his chair again. “They’d married in secret—she wasn’t forced like all the tales say—Sam Tarly found record of it at The Citadel. While Robert was warring over being deserted by his intended bride and—,“ Jon paused, raising an eyebrow significantly, “siring _you_ —Ned Stark found his sister on her birthing-bed dying with me in her arms. She made him promise to protect me. He did. He didn’t tell any of us: not Catelyn, not me, I don’t think even Uncle Benjen knew.”

“Does Arya know?” Gendry asked, his voice rough. Jon was her favourite. He knew that. What would knowing this have meant to her?

“Told her and Sansa after the battle for Winterfell. Bran knew before. The four of us didn’t see everything the same way and it hurt…” he paused and swallowed before continuing, “Dany. My telling them.”

Gendry was obviously struggling to piece all this new information together. His mouth was opening and closing slightly as thoughts raced through his head. But mention of Daenerys brought his eyes back to Jon’s, “When did _she_ know?”

Jon flushed. “Before the battle. It’s what started driving us apart. She wanted us closer and…I just… _couldn’t_ …knowing.” He’d barely whispered the last word.

The shame in Jon’s voice and the way it consumed his body made Gendry squirm internally. He’d seen how happy they’d been together heading North and they’d been aunt and nephew all along. Unknowingly. But _still_ … A pebble dropped in Gendry’s mind and he asked, “Is the not knowing why you’re telling me? Because of Hart not knowing?”

“The boy deserves to know who he is. All of who he is.”

“But Arya…”

“Isn’t here. Hasn’t been here his whole life from what I can tell. She doesn’t get a say. You do.”

Gendry’s temper took hold. “She’s your sister and you’re willing to betray her like that?” 

“Seven Hells! It’s not betraying her to tell you you’re wrong thinking you can protect that boy by not letting him know who he is. I’m not saying send ravens to all the great Houses of Westeros. But tell _him_.”

“What about protecting _her_?” Gendry demanded.

“She’s not here.”

“But…!”

“You want her to be,” Jon acknowledged, rising and motioning soothingly, “You’re still in love with her. I understand that, Gendry, but it’s been years. If she was coming home—if she’s even alive—you’d think she’d have let at least one of us know.” 

Gendry’s fist clenched and his arm rose instinctively. A knock sounded at the door. Gendry’s arm dropped. Breathing heavily, trying to bring himself back under control, he stormed across the room to open it. Maester Ormund stood outside. He took a step back at Gendry’s expression. “My Lord,” he began, tentatively, handing Gendry a small scroll, his eyes drifting warily towards the man beyond him, “This just arrived from King’s Landing. Bearing _the King’s_ seal.” He’d uttered the last point significantly. 

Gendry pulled a short knife from his belt and slid it under the seal. The scroll was short, and his eyes scanned the single sentence quickly. Turning back to Jon, he tossed him the scrap of parchment proclaiming, “One of you _does_ know.”

Watching him read Bran’s words, Gendry felt a flare of spiteful satisfaction as Jon dropped in shock to the chair behind him. 

_She will come home._

~

He’d never understand Bran. If there was one thing in the world he was certain of—other than his feelings for Arya—it was that he’d never understand how her brother knew what he seemed to know, without being told, _exactly_ when he needed to know it. How could _anyone’s_ spies be _that_ good?

He’d nearly decked Jon. But the arrival of the missive prevented it…barely. He hadn’t known Jon was coming to Storm’s End. Had Bran? He must have known that a raven bearing his seal sent to Storm’s End would be brought to the Lord first, not to his brother—cousin—whatever Jon was. It had only borne Bran’s seal—it hadn’t been addressed. Gendry’d asked Ormund afterwards, when the thought had occurred to him. There was no salutation. No other words than _‘She will come home.’_ There could be no other possible ‘She.’ It had to mean Arya. And the message had to have been meant for both of them.

As he approached the door to his own apartments, Gendry’s footsteps slowed. He’d always known that one day he’d have to trust Hart with more of his own story, but he couldn’t help but feel that circumstances outside of his control were pushing this on him faster than he might like. He took a deep breath and opened the door. Hero was lolling near the hearth and his son was stretched out sketching on the settle, his feet in the air and his chin in his hand. “What are you drawing?” he asked, smiling as he came to sit on a nearby chair. 

“A helmet. We’re starting broadsword training and I thought I might need a good one of my own. What do you think?” He spun the parchment towards Gendry so that he could examine it.

The boy’s design showed promise, if too much ostentation. “A few too many decorative antlers for a practice helm? But as a showpiece it’s very elegant,” he critiqued gently. 

Hart’s mouth twisted as he re-evaluated the design. He shrugged, acknowledging easily, “Guess you’re right.”

Gendry tousled the boy’s hair, “Made myself one shaped like a bull when I was a few years older than you. It was beautiful and the horns were impressive but would have probably stuck themselves in my skull if it had ever been struck in battle.”

“Do you still have it?” Hart asked curiously, sitting up.

Gendry shook his head. “No. Losing it saved my life. Your mum used it to make some Gold Cloaks believe that another boy travelling with us was me. Lommy, his name was. He’d been killed when they overtook our camp. Couldn’t risk showing that it meant something to me after that. If she hadn’t lied, I wouldn’t be here.”

“Was this when mum was disguised as a boy?”

“Yes.”

“And you were running away from King’s Landing because grandfather’s wife was trying to kill all his bastards?”

“Didn’t know that when I left the city—but that’s why the Gold Cloaks came looking for me,” Gendry clarified. “Gave my master too much trouble and he sold me to the Night’s Watch.”

“Was mum sold too?” Hart asked.

“No. _She_ was running,” Gendry said carefully. They’d stumbled into some of the conversation he’d intended to have and he wanted to end up where he wanted to go and not off on some tangent led by his son’s quick and inquiring mind. Hart had a talent for stringing him along in conversation towards his own goals. In that way, he bore a striking resemblance to Arya, Gendry reflected.

Hart nodded, thoughtfully. He seemed to be considering something hard before voicing it. Gendry let him chew on whatever it was silently. Eventually, he raised his eyes to Gendry’s, “Da? Do…do you…” he took a deep breath and his words ran together as if he were afraid saying them was going to hurt, “Do you think she’ll ever stop running?”

Gendry’s heart stuttered. He took in a shaky breath through his nose and blew it out through his mouth, slowly, before answering. “She’s never run because she doesn’t care—she runs because she _does_ but hasn’t the skill or means to do what she needs to yet. At least, that’s what she was like before. I got a raven today. It said she’ll come back to Westeros.”

Hart’s astonished grey-eyes flew up to meet his own. He gaped. Gendry wondered if that was how he looked whenever he was startled. Sometimes looking at his son was like looking into a mirror of himself nearly three decades past. He waited patiently as Hart wandered away, running a hand back through his hair and pacing. When he reached the farthest corner of the solar, he turned asking hesitantly, “Are you…are we…will _she_ come back…to _us_?” 

Gendry felt his mouth go dry. He crossed the room in a few strides and pulled his boy tightly into an embrace. Hart wrapped his arms around his father’s waist and hugged him back. “I don’t know, mate. If I did, I’d tell you. I hope she does.” 

Hart mumbled something unintelligible. Gendry pulled away and tilted the boy’s face up to his own, “Repeat that, please?”

“Hoping makes you sad. I don’t want you to be sad.”

Draping his arm around Hart’s shoulders, Gendry led him back to the chair closest to the hearth. Sitting, he wrapped one arm snuggly around the boy, pulling him back against his chest so that he could speak directly into his ear. Saying what he meant with her eyes looking up at him would be too much right now. “I’m sorry if my missing her…if her not being here for you…makes you feel sad. You’re right. I’m sad about it some of the time. Other times I’m angry about it. I love her more than anyone else in the world apart from you and I want things to be different than they are. But I have you. And loving her brought me you. I’m never sad or angry about that.”

He felt Hart’s fingers wind themselves into his own and grip hard. He continued, “I need to tell you some things about her that aren’t anyone else’s business but yours. And mine. And your mum’s. I’ve had you all to myself here for eleven years. But you’re growing up and you’re my heir, and that means you’ll be dealing with people from outside Storm’s End more and more and… It’s _your_ choice what you decide to tell them—but you don’t _need_ to tell them anything at all.”

He felt the boy nod against his shoulder and relax slightly. “Is that okay? That I tell you more about her? I can’t promise to answer all the questions you have—I don’t have all the answers myself.”

“Does this have something to do with Lord Snow’s visit?” Hart asked, cannily, turning his face to Gendry’s.

Gendry nodded solemnly. Hart stood and seated himself on the corner of the bench that served as a low table for the settle, so that he was knee-to-knee with his father. He looked up at Gendry expectantly. 

“Jon Snow is…related…to your mum.” Gendry watched Hart’s grey eyes widen in shock as he added, “So is King Bran.” Gendry watched as his son’s eyes narrowed and widened, darting back and forth as he made silent connections between the stories Gendry had shared about his mum, Lord Snow, and the lessons he’d learned of recent and not-so-recent history in his lessons with Maester Ormund. He waited. At long last, Hart fastened his eyes on Gendry’s and stated, “So my mum is a Northerner, then? A Stark?” Gendry’s long-held breath gusted out of him in relief: his son had drawn the correct conclusion and set them off in the right direction. Hart gestured towards the hearth, “I guess that explains Hero? Their sigil is a wolf.” Catching his name, Hero’s ears perked.

Nodding in agreement, Gendry couldn’t help smiling, “And you heard Jon confirm my tales about his pet direwolf. All his family had them as pets growing up. Lord Eddard Stark—your grandfather—found a litter of them. There were six.” 

Hart nailed him with his eyes, suddenly, as if he were Arya throwing her dragonglass daggers. “Lord Eddard Stark had two daughters who came with him to King’s Landing when he served King Robert as Hand of the King. Whose get am I?”

The boy was quicker than he’d anticipated, but he wouldn’t leave him wondering any longer now that he was here in this moment. “The younger. Arya. The Queen of the North has never had any children—to the best of my knowledge. But she’s your aunt. And King Bran’s your uncle.”

“And my other grandfather—Robert—was the King.” Hart’s face went suddenly ashen and his lips quivered as he met Gendry’s eyes with an expression so aghast Gendry was afraid he might suddenly collapse. He clasped the boy by the arm to steady him as Hart fought to find the words, “Am I…? I am…”

Gendry felt a latent dread rising inside him as he watched his own realization simultaneously fill his son’s eyes, “The blood-heir to all of it should you ever choose to claim it.” For the first time Gendry realized that Jon’s plight was mirrored in his own boy: heir to a confederation of powerful lineages that would dictate his fate and future if widely known. All these years he’d thought he was protecting Arya by keeping the secret of their son’s parentage. In reality, he could have claimed so much more for their son than he’d ever considered. He never would have considered it if he had realized it: it exposed the boy to a great many more threats.

Gendry hastened to explain, “Your mum never wanted any of it herself—that’s a big part of why she left. She always said she wasn’t a lady—she _was_ by birth and always will be—but she never wanted to live like one.”

Hero seemed to have sensed Hart’s distress and was nosing against his leg. The boy reached out absently to stroke the fur between the direwolf’s ears. Gendry watched the pair have a silent conversation of blinking eyes, wrinkling noses, and furrowed brows. 

“D’you think she’d like me?” he asked at last.

Gendry swallowed against the pain that question brought, “You’re a lot like her in some ways. Not to look at, perhaps, but in how you move and the way you think. I think she’d find that strange at first—seeing herself in someone else. But you’re a lot like me too. And she loved me enough to want to have you and make sure we had each other.”  
Hart came back to Gendry and hugged him fiercely, “ _I_ love you, Da.”

Gendry couldn’t help the tears that escaped from the corners of his eyes as he stroked his fingers through his son’s thick hair. “Love you too, mate.”

~

“Did you want me to tell him so that your claim might be forever eclipsed?” Gendry demanded. 

Jon set his wine cup down with a clatter.

“No. I wanted you to tell him so that he’d know who he was.”

“But he’s…and now…!” Gendry couldn’t finish a thought before another crashed in upon it. 

“He could become the focus for any discontent bred against any of the kingdoms. Aye. That’s a fact. But better he _know_ that, than become someone’s unwitting pawn. You didn’t know who you were and it opened you up to exploitation.” At Gendry’s questioning look, Jon added, “Melisandre. Sansa taught me a lot about how people use the secrets others keep. Your boy—Arya’s boy—deserves more choice in his life than you or I ever had. It’s the only way she’d have it and you know that yourself. Can you think of anything Arya would despise more than someone not being allowed to be who they are?”

“But that’s not who he _is_ ,” Gendry countered, “It’s who he’s _born_! She’d despise him being forced into anything because of that just as much!”

Jon tilted his head, conceding the point. “But now he can only be trapped by facts if he allows himself to be. He can choose. Sansa hasn’t any heirs— and if she and Yara Greyjoy continue on, content as they seem to be, there won’t be any. The terms Tyrion Lannister set at the Dragon Pit Council prevent Bran from passing along the Six Kingdoms, but we both know that any strong leader can sway public opinion and once they have power…it’s called the game of thrones for a reason, aye? And your boy…. He’s got his feet on the ground and he’s not spoilt—like so many lordlings are.”

“It will be his choice. None other,” Gendry declared solemnly, “Promise me that, Jon.”

The other man nodded gravely, “Aye. I’ll keep his secret until he tells me otherwise.”

The two men tapped their cups together, sealing the pledge, and drank deep.

~

“Da?” Hart called, knocking at the solar door. The door swung open. Gendry grinned at him, and ushered him into the room.

“Hungry? Help yourself.”

Grabbing an apple from the bowl on the table, Hart crunched into it before sprawling into one of the chairs by the fire. 

Gendry handed the missive that had arrived to his son. He watched the boy read it, eyes growing wider with every sentence.

> _My Lord Baratheon,_
> 
> _Bran the Broken, the First of his Name, King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Six Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm is hosting a tournament and festivities in King’s Landing in a moon’s time to celebrate the arrival of his sister, the Queen of the North._
> 
> _This is a State occasion as well as one of a more personal nature. As a close friend and steadfast ally of the King’s family for many years, your presence is anticipated. Rooms will be provided for you in the Red Keep._
> 
> _We look forward to seeing you again and having this opportunity to meet your son._

“What does that mean?” Hart asked the moment he finished reading.

Gendry shook his head, “I don’t know, mate. I’ve always had the sense that King Bran knows who you are, but he’s never outright confirmed it. But it certainly means that we’re both expected to go. Do you want to?”

Hart nodded enthusiastically. “I’ve always wanted to see King’s Landing. And a tournament! There hasn’t been one of those…ever! Or at least not in my lifetime. I’d love to see it. And…” he paused, looking up at Gendry, his expression tentatively inquisitive, “are the King and Queen much like… _her_?”

A thousand thoughts teemed through Gendry’s brain. King’s Landing was an opportunity for unknown dangers and threats to befall both him and his boy. Should he even entertain the thought of putting his son through this? Despite his misgivings, he knew he didn’t have a choice. 

“To look at? Bran is—a little. Sansa—not at all. Lord Snow—Jon—probably resembles her most in looks. I doubt he’ll be there.”

Hart processed this new information thoughtfully, then, grinning cheekily, he changed tacks, “Don’t suppose you’ll let me bring Hero?”

Gendry imagined the faces of everyone in the Great Hall were he to say ‘yes.’ The gloom of his thoughts dissipated as he wrangled the lad into a jocular headlock, “You’d be right about that, mate!”

~

Ser Davos met them at the River Gate. The wharves were bustling and more crowded than usual; teeming with preparations for the arrival of the King’s sister. 

“They’re due here tomorrow—the Queen of the North and the Greyjoy Queen,” Davos said, nodding to Gendry and the young boy who stepped off the ferry beside him. “Wanted to take you up to the Keep myself, though. Get you settled.”

Gendry’s face had lightened at the sight of his old benefactor. He nodded his gratitude then gestured to the boy saying, “Ser Davos Seaworth, my son. Hart, this is Ser Davos, Lord Seaworth.”

Hart nodded politely and held out his hand to clasp Ser Davos by the arm offering, “I’m honoured to meet you, my lord. I’m in your debt. Father has told me how you helped free him all those years ago on Dragonstone.”

Davos’ eyebrows lifted as he assessed the boy and they flicked briefly to Gendry in wonderment before he replied, “Your father repaid that debt and more, lad, in the years that followed. Piece of advice, if you’ll allow an old man. Don’t go offering yourself up around here when there’s no need. Your father never took such advice to heart, but perhaps his son will.” His eyes flickered again toward Gendry whose expression had hardened but gave a brief tilt of his head in acknowledgement. Davos cleared his throat, “Best get you settled, then. You’ll want to wash and change, likely rest too before the feasts, festivals, and tourneys begin tomorrow.”

As they rode through the streets of King’s Landing, Hart’s curious eyes darted everywhere. He hadn’t yet seen any city larger than Storm’s End, and the infrastructure of King’s Landing was appreciably newer. He’d travelled to a few of the holds and settlements throughout the Stormlands, but the Crownlands and capital were an entirely new adventure. Gendry had visited the city several times over the years, but he still found himself feeling out-of-step with the city he had once known as well as the lines and calluses on the palm of his hand. It wasn’t his home anymore. Although much of it bore the same names as those he had known in his youth, none of it looked the same. It was disconcerting. He always felt relieved when it was time for him to return to Storm’s End and its winding, close-built, cobbled streets that felt more like the first home he remembered.

Davos’ horse came alongside Gendry’s and the older man asked, quietly, “He’s a fine-looking boy in spite of his resemblance to you. Something about the tilt of his chin though…minds me of his mother.”

Gendry had turned his head sharply, “It’s that plain?” 

“To anyone who knows you both? Aye, lad, it is. You were wise to keep him in the Stormlands all these years. Are you certain bringing him here now was wise?” 

Gendry shook his head, “Not certain at all. But the King requested it and _Hart’s_ certain. So here we are.”

Davos gave a quick nod of understanding but couldn’t help asking, “How long has it been since…?”

Gendry swallowed before replying, “His whole life—barring the first ten or so minutes of it.”

Davos drew in a sharp breath and then let it out slowly. “I wish you well, lad. You both. I truly do.” Gendry kicked his horse and rode ahead to rejoin his son. 

~

The crowds were astonishing. King’s Landing had been so decimated, yet now it was a shining city full of—if appearances could be believed—truly happy people. Sansa made a softly approving sound and murmured, “Think of what it was when we last saw it.”

Yara nodded, her usual brashness muted, “He was king of the ashes then, as you were queen of the rubble. You’ve both rebuilt more than just the cities. The people are happy. He’s done well.” She smirked, “Never would have guessed it the day we elected him. Bran the Broken,” she scoffed, “King of a broken city, broken realm, broken lineage—his sister mortifyingly proclaiming his inability to father children to the skies.”

Sansa’s eyes sparkled back at Yara sidelong as she quickly clasped, then released, her partner’s fingertips out-of-sight below the rail. She couldn’t quite manage to smother the wistful smile that played across her lips as she replied, “Sisters don’t always know how to respect their younger brothers…” 

“Until they’re gone,” Yara finished, nodding gravely. After a moment she bumped Sansa’s shoulder, playfully, “He’s right here, you goose. I made my peace with my brother, it’s high time you did so with yours.”

Sansa straightened her shoulders, “It’s not _my brother_ I need to make peace with. His lords and the three-eyed-raven, on the other hand…” 

~

This was Sansa’s first time south in ten years. She was only here now because the conversation she needed to have with Bran wasn’t one she felt she could entrust to advisors and maesters, diplomats, vassal lords, or ravens. This was a matter of family. Of inheritance. Of blood. Of, well, pack. That first night in King’s Landing, she and Bran were still obliged by ceremony and protocol to be formally on display. Sansa found herself gazing out the Great Hall from the vantage point she had once (in her naïve and romantical youth) aspired to, seated beside her brother. The irony of the situation struck her, and, catching sight of Tyrion Lannister glancing at her sidelong from where he was engaged in conversation with Ser Podrick, she nearly laughed aloud. He was yet another remnant of her past that needed to be fully resolved while she was here. She’d been wed to him here, in a sept that no longer existed. Did that union still hold, in the eyes of the Seven, or had the vows made on her behalf to Ramsay Bolton under the reproachful eyes of the Winterfell heart-tree invalidate them? Her maesters and lords had debated these issues loudly and at length both in council and in private until she had, some years previously, commanded that they cease. But she _knew_ they were still debating outside of her presence chamber. Ultimately, it was all a part of the same dilemma: The North needed to be made safe. The North needed an heir. The Stark line needed to continue. She sought Yara’s eyes over the throng of the Hall. She was propped up one-shouldered against a wall, speaking avidly with Ser Brienne. Yara caught her eye and flashed a wide and unselfconscious smile at her, causing Brienne to turn toward the dais and tilt her head courteously. Sansa tipped her head in acknowledgment and then the horns sounded and the highborn guests who had come from across the Six Kingdoms to pay their respects to their King and his sister were presented.

Sansa wondered, cursorily, as their names were proclaimed by the herald, when and with whom Lord Baratheon had sired a child. As her glance fell on the boy, however, she’d had to stifle an involuntary intake of breath that threatened to accompany seeing her father and sister’s grey eyes gazing back at her curiously from the foot of the dais. Ser Brienne did _not_ manage that feat—Sansa distinctly heard a gasp from somewhere behind where she was seated. Strategically, Sansa did not allow herself to glance or turn in any way toward Brienne or, indeed, Bran. Instead, she inclined her head politely to Gendry and his son, all the while feeling herself begin to seethe as one thought after another about how this child came to be chased themselves around her mind. After more than twelve other lords and ladies had been announced she chanced a glance at Bran. He remained placid and indifferent, as he ever was. Behind him, Brienne was as pale as the white cloak of the King’s Guard she now wore. 

By the time the formalities of the day were over and she could at last retire to her chambers, Sansa was fuming. Yara’s jovial arrival moments later with a flagon of excellent Arbor wine could not diminish Sansa’s ire. In fact, after downing a cup and then a second (rather faster than was prudent) she would have stormed from the room in search of an explanation—from Bran, Gendry, _anyone_ —were it not for Yara’s level-head, strong arms, and distracting lips persuading her to take action in the morning. 

So it was that Gendry Baratheon found himself answering a knock on his door as dawn lit the sky over King’s Landing. Yara Greyjoy stood wordlessly before him, her face a mask of thinly veiled contempt, proffering a note. The moment he took it, she turned on her heel and disappeared down the shadowed corridor. 

Gendry had not enjoyed the cacophony of the Great Hall the night before. He’d become used to his own Hall and the people in it and felt reasonably comfortable there. Here, though, he was on unsteady ground, surrounded by highborns and greatfolk: neither of which he yet considered himself to be, despite twelve years of lording. Hart, on the other hand, found it all fascinating. He’d always liked people a great deal more than Gendry did, himself. Like Arya, he seemed to unconsciously gather people in. The boy was, Gendry reflected, a version of them both that might have existed if neither had known hardship and deprivation, self-doubt, torture, betrayal and loss. The lad had talked Gendry’s ear off about the people he’d met, asking about their histories, families, and regions until Gendry had sternly informed him that if he’d only go to bed, he could vent his curiosity asking all those questions of the people themselves in the morning. Hart had grinned at him cheekily, chuckled, “Alright, Da,” then turned over and fallen immediately asleep. 

Gendry stuck his head into the closet adjoining his own, seeing if his son still slept. Sprawled out across the bedstead on his stomach, it is was evident he wouldn’t be up any time soon. Closing the door softly, Gendry unrolled the parchment and read:

> _I shall be touring the Street of Steel this afternoon. As I recall, from your time in our forges at Winterfell, you have some skill in that area. I have questions to put to you,_ My Lord. _Join me._

A weight settled on his shoulders and nervous tension unspooled in his belly. Lady— _Queen_ \--Sansa certainly knew how to throw her weight around with a few pointed words. _‘Some skill.’_ He’d never had any dealings with her during his time at Winterfell. He _had_ spent most of his time in the forge with the other smiths, some small portion in confab with Jon and Davos…and then those secret sacred moments with Arya. He’d been shocked to realize Daenerys knew his name at all the night she’d ennobled him. That Sansa Stark remembered who he had been when he’d lived under her roof, shouldn’t have surprised him. Her haughty gaze—so entirely unlike her sister’s—had certainly registered at least as much as Daenerys’ each evening in her Great Hall. He grimaced as he reread the note. The way she’d written the words _‘My Lord’_ —disdain fairly dripped from the swirl of her script. He was not bound to attend her, as he would be had the same summons come from Bran. She was not his Queen; he was not her liege lord. So far, Bran had remained utterly silent beyond the initial summons by raven. He glanced again at the door behind which Hart lay oblivious to the machinations of court…and his relatives. That’s what bound him, he reluctantly admitted to himself: the blood of the boy. He sighed, sat himself at the desk, and wrote his own note to Davos, in whom he felt confident he could entrust his boy:

> _Ser,_
> 
> _Once again, you’ve proven wise, and I am now obliged to attend to many matters. Could you favor my son with a tour of the King’s shipyards today? He is full of questions and enthusiasms that I cannot answer. Send word and I shall have one of my men bring him to you at the hour of your choosing._

Hours later, Gendry dismounted from his horse and squared his shoulders. The Street of Steel gleamed. The only thing that resembled his memory of it were the sounds that echoed across the paving stone and reverberated off the walls. He could see a crowd mustering to follow and admire the Queen of the North as she examined the wares in various establishments. How, by all the gods, was he meant to approach her in this melee? He needn’t have worried. As he stood examining a blade suspended from the awning of a nearby workshop, her voice infiltrated his circular thoughts.

“Lord Gendry Baratheon,” she called. Though well-mannered, her tone was standoffish, “You are quite familiar with blades are you not? Come advise me: my own expertise is more fashion than function.” The crowd tittered. She was dressed elegantly and regally—though in a style distinctly northern. 

Gendry turned, bowing courteously, “It would be my honour, Your Grace.” He gestured for her to take the lead. He fell in behind her as she proceeded past him into one of the storefronts. Prevented from following, the crowd could only gaze at them raptly through the windows. Gendry could see that the proprietor’s attempts to approach them were hampered by several of her guards and ladies. She’d patently instructed them to ensure the opportunity of a private word with him. 

He followed her farther into the shop. As he came up beside her, she began to speak, her lips barely moving and her words so soft that he had to lean toward her to catch them. “You are, clearly, that boy’s sire. But by all the gods, Old and New, if any harm came to my sister in the making of him, I will make you wish you burned in the pyres that followed the Long Night.” The vehemence of her words was unmistakable and it was all he could do not to recoil from the implication—not the threat. Gendry couldn’t help the brief tug at the corners of his mouth as the thought registered that perhaps there _was_ more resemblance between the Queen and her sister than he’d allowed. At least when it came to vengeance.

Her eyes narrowed at his repressed smile so he made his reply as quick and sincere as he was able, “He is the greatest joy of my life, Your Grace. His mother knew that to be true in her gift of him to me.”

“Where _is_ she?” Sansa hissed. Her expression was unflappable, but her tone…

Gendry shrugged, “Your guess is as good as mine.”

“You dare…”

“I dare nothing, Your Grace. You’ve asked for information I do not have. I have a son I love. I will be indebted to his mother for the privilege of raising and knowing him ‘til the end of my days.”

Sansa’s lips pressed themselves into a firm line. He could see that she was carefully considering his words. After a few moments she inquired, haltingly, “Is he aware…?”

Gendry’s nod of confirmation was curt, “He knows where he comes from. His history. He knows enough.”

Sansa’s gaze grew pointed as she reached out to finger the jewelled hilt of a blade hanging on the wall, “Enough, you say? From whom has he learnt this history?”

“The broad strokes? Our maester. His personal history? Myself. On one brief visit, a little less than a year ago, some fine details from Jon.”

Sansa’s blue eyes were shocked. Jon hadn’t mentioned anything. Gratitude to the man curled in Gendry’s chest: he’d kept his word. 

“And her?” Sansa demanded, struggling to regain her poise.

Gendry’s stance changed and he looked down, almost bashfully, “He’s been with me since birth. I had hoped, once…” his voice grew momentarily wistful before he caught himself.

Sansa was now studying him openly, appraisingly, even somewhat pityingly, “She never did what anyone hoped or expected from her. Why would she start with motherhood?”

“Love, Your Grace?” Gendry’s voice was bitter. It surprised him. He’d thought himself long past any lingering resentment. 

Relief flooded Sansa’s body instantly at the change in his tone. Arya had broken his heart. The boy hadn’t been conceived in rage, terror or pain, as she had feared. That much, at least, seemed suddenly clear. “I’d like to know him,” she stated, placing one hand gently on Gendry’s forearm.

Gendry stepped away from her. Honeyed words and too-good-to-be-true offers from beautiful women always sent shivers up his spine. He retreated into a dignified formality, “If he’s open to it, that could be arranged, Your Grace.”

Sansa’s hand dropped to her side, “It _will be_ arranged.” Evidently, she would brook no opposition. Before Gendry could offer any, Sansa pitched her voice louder that those around might mark her words: “Thank you for the advice, My Lord. You have provided me with much to consider. I wish you a good day.” With a flounce of her skirts, she whirled away with her ladies, her Queen’s Guard falling in protectively around them. 

~

“If he remains your husband by law, then you cannot be forced to wed another,” Samwell Tarly, the Grand Maester, averred.

“It’s happened before,” the Queen of the North replied, utterly deadpan.

“Mercifully, _that_ husband is long deceased and no impediment to anything,” remarked Lord Tyrion, airily, taking a sip from his cup.

“Except peace of mind,” the Queen countered.

“We _could_ always…” Tyrion offered, awkwardly, from the far end of the Small Council table.

“Never,” replied the Queen of the North, meeting his eyes, unabashed. A silent exchange of raised eyebrows and pursed lips ensued between them before she repeated, with a conciliating smile, “Truly. Never.”

Lord Tyrion acquiesced, good-naturedly, toasting her with his freshly refilled cup. 

“For The North to remain independent in perpetuity…,” Sam began.

“We have need of an heir. I am very much aware,” Sansa sighed. “Love cannot provide me with one and I will not suffer another man in my bed. Your Grace, the King, complicates matters by being unable to father children for our line.”

“What you call a complication for your line, is what simplified his election in the first place,” the Master of Coin interjected, “Or have you all forgotten that?” It was no secret that Ser Bronn— _Lord_ Bronn, having acquired all of his wealth and influence rising through services to the Lannister family, aspired to further greatness. Whether for himself or one of his host of young children, no one had yet determined. 

“Jon Snow?” the question came from Tyrion, “Bastards have been made legitimate before.”

Sansa shook her head. She had her own reasons for not wanting to fall into that line of inheritance. Jon was, legitimately, a part of the Stark lineage—through the female line. But it was for the best that fewer people knew that. Besides, he didn’t appear any more inclined to beget children than she was herself.

At last, after a pregnant silence, the King spoke, “Arya.”

All heads swiveled towards him, as they inevitably did whenever he deigned to participate in the world around him. 

Sam spoke tentatively, “Has…has _anyone_ heard…? Lady Stark has been absent from Westeros for quite some time….”

Ser Davos cleared his throat, interrupting mildly, “Last clear word we had of her ship came from the Summer Isles nigh on a decade ago. Rumour was, they were the last port of call, destined to head west. None since.”

Sansa schooled her face, appearing to consider his words, “Would Arya be enough, Brother? When no one has seen or heard tell of her in more than ten long years?”

“Took her what? Seven? Eight years to reappear last time?” Tyrion mused, “And look what she did upon her return! Slayed the Night King! Brought forth the Dawn of a New Age! The North Remembers…isn’t that how it goes?”

Several members of the council shifted in their seats. The question of the North’s independence made many of them restless. If the Queen of the North passed from the world without a successor, perhaps the North would fall-in and the Seven Kingdoms would be reborn under whomsoever the council of lords elected to succeed Bran. The issue, for them, was best left unresolved. As they saw it, it was only a vain matter of importance to the remaining Starks—not the realm. 

At last, oblique and unwavering as always, Bran decreed, “The promise of her will surely suffice, for the present.”

Sansa never ceased to marvel at how her brother could say so much without saying anything at all. Listening to his words was a maester-class in mystification. If she hadn’t known what she’d only recently learned… 

Brienne’s eyes tracked between Bran and Sansa. It was clear she held her own suspicions, but, ever loyal, would be circumspect.

With a curt nod of her head, Sansa rose from her seat. The other members of the Small Council rose too, out of respect. She took her leave, her own advisors trailing in her wake. She wasn’t certain Bran had meant to impart a message, but she was going to take action from his words, regardless.

~

When the missive arrived from Sansa, Gendry couldn’t contain the fury that roared in his ears, making his blood pound. He’d dashed the letter into the hearth fire, cursing, and exploded from his chambers with such force that the doorlatch didn’t catch and it rebounded off the wall, shuddering. Blind with rage, he somehow made his way to the Keep’s forge where several startled smiths scattered. Hours later, his muscles aching with fatigue from overzealous hammering, he’d calmed enough to go in search of his son.  
He found him in the training grounds. King’s Landing had offered more skilled swordsmen than Hart had ever before encountered, and he wasn’t backwards about asking anyone whose style he admired for a critique. Ser Brienne had been first to offer guidance, and had thereafter ensured that many of the off-duty King’s Guard would make themselves available to the young heir to Storm’s End. 

As Gendry approached the ring, he could see that Hart was mid-challenge against Ser Podrick. Kicking himself backwards into a flip, Hart rose up from his crouched landing, tossing his blade into his left-hand. Pod blocked it—barely—grinning, but Hart hadn’t fully regripped the blade and it went arcing out of his hand. Hart yielded at once, with good grace. Podrick bowed to him, then shook his hand admitting, “You don’t often find such equal skill in both arms: that’s a rare talent.”

“Thank you, Ser,” Hart said, companionably, clasping the other man’s arm as he accepted the praise. He noticed his father leaning against the rail and hailed him, “What did you think, Da?”

Gendry noted that Podrick appeared to be gauging his form and weighing it against that of the boy—judging their similarities. “Light on your feet as always, but I’m glad that was a friendly bout, mate. Thank you, Ser Podrick,” he said, approaching and clasping the other man’s arm, “He’s always loved swordplay. Took up his first wooden sword before he could walk. Wreaked havoc and attempted murder on the nursery maids.”

The knight simply smiled pleasantly at Gendry’s anecdote, an oddly-knowing glimmer of appreciation in his brown eyes. With a final nod of his head to them both, he excused himself. Gendry couldn’t help himself any longer. Throwing one arm over Hart’s shoulders, he pulled the lad into a manly hug. Hart succumbed, genially. Affection from his father had never been wanting and, as a result, wasn’t something he’d ever found embarrassing—as other lads often did. There was something else though, caught in a measured tightness behind his father’s eyes, and around his mouth: a tension in his bearing that made Hart ask, “Something up, Da?”

Gendry squeezed his son closer against him as they strode from the ring. “Aye. Wait ‘til we reach the godswood. I want to be certain we can’t be overheard.” 

Amid the new-growth forest, Gendry shared the content of Sansa’s message. “She wants you to foster with her. In the North. For the next few years.”

Hart watched his father’s face carefully as he asked, “How soon would she want me to go?”

“Says she’d sail North with you when her business here is done. It’s a solid two weeks by sea if the weather holds and there aren’t any other disruptions. Takes at least a moonspan, by the King’s Road. Look, though, mate: you don’t have to go. You don’t even know her. I’ll fight her—or anyone else—who tries to make you into something you don’t want to be. You shouldn’t have to give up your whole life just because you share her blood.” 

The fierceness in his father’s voice was humbling. Hart reached out and took his hand, squeezing it tightly. “I know you would, Da. What, exactly, did the letter say?”

“Something about allowing you to see something more of the world. Learning about the North. Gaining independence.” 

Hart considered Sansa’s words. After a time, he conceded, “There’s truth in all of that, though. Being here, seeing King’s Landing and learning from everyone here? I’ve enjoyed that. It’s opened my eyes to other ways than how things are done in the Stormlands. Some things are better, but most things have been far worse for the smallfolk outside our borders for a long time. I didn’t really understand that before I’d seen it. If I’m going to make a good lord, shouldn’t I experience more of the world?” Hart paused, “Would you have become as fair a lord as you are if you’d not lived otherwise first?”

Gendry felt the last of the fight go out of him, he couldn’t begrudge the boy a taste of the world, of exposure to his northern heritage, although the prospect—combined as it was with his own memories—terrified him on the boy’s behalf. And he was loath to put any trust in Queen Sansa. She hadn’t always been kind to her sister. How could he entrust her with their son? But this was Hart’s choice. He’d made that promise to himself when he decided to tell him about his maternal family. Resigned, Gendry replied, “Maester Ormund has been saying as much to me since your tenth nameday. He’s been trying to get me to agree to a few months with different Stormlords…but…maybe I’ve been selfish holding on to you. If you want to go, I won’t stop you.” Gendry reached out, pulling his son into a side-embrace, his arm hooked loosely around his shoulders. Only a handful of inches and they’d soon be the same height, Gendry noted, although Hart was more lithely muscled and less burly than he was himself. Gendry sighed. He wasn’t really a boy anymore.

“It’s not that I want to leave _you_ , Da,” Hart stressed, looping his own arm companionably around his father’s back and leaning his head against his broad shoulder as they walked between the trees side-by-side. “I’d like to see the places you’ve told me about. To get to know mum’s people—where she came from. I don’t want you fighting a battle for me that doesn’t need to be fought. I know who I am. I’m not her. I don’t have any wish to deny what I was born to.” He looked up at Gendry, his expression firm and unclouded, but full of fondness adding, “Because I was born to you.”

Gendry’s voice was gruff with emotion as he clasped the back of the boy’s head and pressed a silent kiss to the crown of head. “You’re a smart lad, and you’ve more of her in you than you know. Her bold adventuring streak was bound to kick in eventually. But if, at any point, you want to come home, no one will be allowed to prevent you.”

They embraced under the sheltering branches. “I won’t go with her just yet, though,” Hart divulged when they eventually pulled apart. Gendry looked at him inquiringly. “Got to collect Hero and bring him with me if I’m going North. He should have the chance to see where he comes from, if I do.”

~

> _Your Grace,_
> 
> _The terms under which Gendry Baratheon, Lord of Storm’s End, Lord Paramount of the Stormlands, accepts your offer to foster his son in the North are as follows:_
> 
> _Formally, he is in every way to be regarded as the heir to Storm’s End and the Stormlands with all rights, privileges, and courtesies afforded._
> 
> _He will be attended by a retinue of Stormlanders who will remain with him for as long as he feels necessary, but for no less than two moons following his arrival. Should he, at that time, choose to leave with them, he will not be prevented from doing so. Should he, at any future time decide that he would like to return to the Stormlands, arrangements for his safe transport will be communicated and arranged immediately._
> 
> _His pet wolf and beloved companion, Hero, will accompany him and be made welcome._
> 
> _Ravens bearing letters from him, as well as yourself, are expected no less than once per moonspan during his stay in the North._
> 
> _He must undertake regular study under your maester’s supervision, from whom regular reports are also expected. As you are likely aware, he is a talented swordsman. Arrangements for facilitating his further training should be made._
> 
> _Informally: he is his own master. Whatever expectations you may secretly harbor: make no claim upon him that he does not choose for himself._
> 
> _\- Gendry Baratheon_

Sansa handed the letter to Yara who scanned it quickly, whistling admiringly at the concluding paragraph. “How’d the blacksmith get so canny with double-speak?” she marveled.  
Sansa shrugged, “He’s obviously got strengths beyond those of the flesh. Arya was never one for the purely ornamental and evidently _she_ found _something_ in him.”

~

No more than two moons later, a Greyjoy ship appeared at the north inlet of Shipbreaker Bay. The Iron Islanders maintained fleets on both west and east coasts now, ferrying southern goods to the North and beyond to the Free Folk settlements and back again. They’d become almost-reputable merchant transport. As the hour came for them to board and depart, Yara remarked frankly to Gendry, “He won’t get any softer, living with us in the North. You’re a strong man, but a soft one, Southern Lord. We may be women, but our spines are castle-forged-steel. He’ll learn from us. But we won’t crush him. By the Drowned God, you have my word.” His taciturn nod of reply sent her striding up the gangway. 

Hart embraced his father one final time advising, “Don’t worry about me, Da. Hero will look out for me. Same’s he’s always done. And don’t let Rawly get too friendly with my hunter. He’ll feed her too many carrots and spoil her.” He pulled away and seeing his father’s forlorn expression added cheekily, “And don’t get all grumpy and broody, Your Lordship. I promise to write often.” 

Gendry’s mouth turned upwards, fondly. He embraced his boy once more before waving him aboard, his heart in his throat.


	5. Connexion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Exploring the world and herself, Arya comes to terms with her past, present and possibly future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I make reference to some lore from the ASOIAF universe that did not appear in the show in this chapter. The parallels between the gods and our characters were vivid--dripping with foreshadowing--they caught my imagination and I wanted to integrate them. 
> 
> I am beyond floored by the reception this story is getting. It means the world to me that so many people are engaging with and getting attached to my original character creations and reaching out to share with me what you're connecting with in Arya and Gendry's journey apart and towards one another. Thank you!

When Arya’s ship first made landfall after more than a year of unending ocean, she’d clambered out of the landing boat and collapsed into the sand, arms outstretched on her back, every fibre of her being reveling. She opened her eyes to the sky but the world wouldn’t stop rocking. They had found the legendary islands of Aegon, Rhaenys and Visenya and then they’d been blown back to the southwest coast of Sothoryos. Setting out westerly again, they hadn’t found any land at all for more moons than they’d imagined. They’d weathered terrible storms and been becalmed for a full moonspan—twice. The stars they knew had disappeared, while others that they knew not how to navigate, appeared in the night sky. A mutiny was attempted but put down quickly with the sudden mysterious death of the ringleader. The culprit of the deed remained nameless, but while an unknown threat loomed it held all the crew to task. They’d been eating only what they’d been able to catch for the past four moons. When seabirds had finally begun reappearing nearly two moons past, the entire crew had cheered. The ship was battered and in need of a proper overhauling. Arya had no earthly idea where in the Unknown World they were. But this was solid land and achieving it felt like a boon from the gods. 

After sending foraging parties out from the beach for four days, a delegation of wary people made themselves known. They did not maintain settlements near the unforgiving salt sea, for, they explained, it seemed that great waves often stole the water from the shore and then swiftly poured it back, rushing far inland, wiping out anything in its path. This was unwelcome news to the Captain, as it meant that any journey along the coast would be further fraught with dangers his was certain the ship could no longer withstand. Fashioning a map, the people directed them to the mouth of a deep-water river, somewhat further north, that would take them inland to a sizeable settlement. Repairs and other matters could more safely be undertaken from there.

Time spent in the city as the ship was repaired revealed that this land was Ulthos. The farthest eastern reaches of Ulthos, to be sure, but Ulthos nonetheless. They were the first known Westerosi to visit this settlement and the first people ever, as far as the Ulthosi knew, to have arrived from the eastern seas. Something like pride swelled in Arya’s chest at the achievement. After everything she had survived, there were still novelties at which she could marvel. This land was full of them and she had all the time in the world to explore.

~

### Some Years Later, Somewhere Between Ulthos and Sothoryos

The man had been watching her from across the tavern for the better part of two hours. Arya watched him decide to approach her with something that felt like satisfaction: he was attractive and apparently thought his chances with her were better than average. Less than an hour later, she had him pressed up against the wall out back, his tongue tangling with hers and his hands fumbling under her clothes. But when his calloused palm clutched at her breast under her shirt, she froze and backed suddenly away from him. The man looked at her, lustfully, taking a step toward her. She held up a hand warding him off and turned, dashing away down the alley, never looking back, hearing his meaningless shouts of frustrated disappointment fade, her heart beating frantically, her breathing labored, and a flush of embarrassment heating her neck. Blindly, she struggled to keep her feet from tripping themselves up on the uneven cobblestone streets. 

When her mind cleared, she found herself slumped against the wall of what she thought must be a sept of some sort. There was an emblem inscribed on the door, depicting a throng of people kneeling in a semi-circle around a large sphere. She heard voices coming down the street and, not being inclined toward any interaction with anyone, pushed lightly against the door. It swung soundlessly inward and she stepped inside.

It was a large courtyard surrounded by a colonnade, in the center of which was a round-walled pool of still water. Over the pool was suspended an alabaster and moonstone sphere—not unlike the one on the door—with a single droplet of water poised as if ready at any moment to plop from the bottom into the pool. As Arya moved closer to the pool, she could see the starlight refracting off the surface of the water and realized that the droplet wasn’t water at all, but an impossibly smooth and sculpted mirrorstone. 

A whispered voice came from the shadows, “Be welcome, stranger. This phase is yours. Witness, then pause with us or go in tranquility.” Arya couldn’t see anyone, but heard the shuffling of feet and the sound of a door opening and closing somewhere in the far corner of the colonnade, before she was wrapped again in the silence of the night. She wasn’t certain what she was meant to do—or witness—as the voice had said. She prowled the courtyard, investigating, but found only pots of scented climbing vines and two doors—one in each corner of the courtyard farthest from the entrance she’d used. Each bore some iconography that was evidently meant to represent the sphere and the teardrop. She turned back to the pool and sat on the edge, her gaze focused on the fusion of the mirrorstone droplet to the smooth sphere, glowing in the moonlight. She wondered how they’d fastened them together, but couldn’t get closer to examine the tiny join unless she waded into the pool. She dropped curious fingertips into it trying to gauge the depth. It was deeper than she’d thought: she was up to her elbow and still hadn’t touched the bottom. She pulled her arm out, shaking the cool water lightly from her fingers. As the drops landed, she watched ripples crisscross one another in the water. 

“His hand felt like his hand,” came an accusing and insistent voice in her mind, quite suddenly, “The North isn’t the only thing that remembers. The North’s _body_ remembers.”

Arya snorted at the voice—an intruding and unwanted constant companion with whom she’d achieved a hostile truce in recent years—replying snidely, “The North’s body is Sansa’s body. Not mine.”

“True and false,” the accusing voice rejoined. “One bears fruit, one lies fallow. One acts, one judges. One leaves, one stays.”  
“One is a Lady, one is _not_ ,” Arya muttered aloud. 

“One only is. When one is not, there is no one. A girl knows this.” The voice had, without warning, taken on the cadence and timbre of Jaquen H’gar. Arya cast her eyes about the courtyard wildly, looking for threats, but the voice continued echoing in her mind, layering a memory of the past with her disquiet of the present:

> _  
> “Who are you?”  
>  “Arya.”  
>  “Where did you come from?”  
>  “Westeros. My family home is Winterfell. I’m the youngest daughter of a great Lord; the younger sister of the Queen in the North, the elder sister of the so-called Broken King of the Six Kingdoms.  
>  “Is that all you are?”  
>  “The Bringer of the Dawn.”  
>  “Is that all you are?”  
>  “A traveler.”  
>  “Why do you travel?”  
>  “I want to know the world.” She can feel the lash strike her.  
>  “A lie.”  
>  “To be free…” The lash struck again, harder and faster.  
>  “A lie.”  
>  “To be wholly myself and not somebody I don’t recognize!” The force of the lash sent her sprawling to the ground.  
>  “A girl lies. To me. To the Many-Faced God. To herself. Does she truly want to be No One?”  
>  “I’m not playing this stupid game anymore!”  
>  “We never stop playing.”_

The voice faded and Arya felt herself awakening as if from a trance. Rivulets of rain teemed over the sphere, as if it were crying, collecting and dripping from the tear-shaped mirrorstone. The sky had lightened: it was near dawn. There was movement behind her. Her hand strayed to the dagger at her hip as she turned quickly towards the soft sound.

“This phase is mine,” a woman’s gentle voice intoned. “Pause with us,” she gestured with her head toward the door in the corner, “or go in tranquility,” she continued, nodding back at the door behind them to the street.

Arya rose, opened the door on which was engraved the teardrop, and disappeared inside. 

~

She stayed. Day after day. Week after week. After a moon’s turn, Arya sent word to her ship that they’d remain in port for the foreseeable future. For more than a year, Arya remained cloistered within the Moongarden. Each night she stood witness by the sculptured pool until she was relieved of duty by another acolyte or a stranger who had wandered in from the street. She never knew whose job it was to keep watch so that the pool might never become unattended. During the day, meditative dialogue called Phase took place in shadowy rooms with other acolytes, overseen by her mentor Ni’kyliim.

> “Who were you born?”  
>  “Arya Stark of Winterfell. A younger sister and then an older sister.”  
>  “What tasks did Arya Stark enjoy?”  
>  “Playing. Fishing. Exploring the woods. Archery. Besting the others. Waterdancing.”  
>  “What tasks did Arya Stark disdain?”  
>  “Sewing. Conduct and etiquette. The things my mother and septa and sister valued.”  
>  “There were two of you?”  
>  “Yes.”  
>  “Very different?”  
>  “Yes.”  
>  “Foils, then.”  
>  Arya looked bemused.  
>  “Meant to complement one another. Working together in strength, shoring up one another’s deficiencies and weaknesses.”  
>  “Later…yes. We did that. To save Winterfell. To save Westeros.”  
>  “As you were always intended to.”

~

> “Tell me about serving.”  
>  “Putting another’s needs ahead of one’s self without question.”  
>  “Servants question, clarify, advance. Only a slave or captive must serve without question. Even they question in silence.”  
>  “For survival, then.”  
>  “Yes. Often service seeks its own best interest. Food, shelter, protection, comfort.”  
>  “Obligation.”  
>  “Explain.”  
>  “A Lord is obliged to his people, his king, his country.”  
>  “Are his subjects not obliged to him likewise? Mutual service forms a bond—a contract. Many would choose to serve their family, their people, their king, their country. As you say your father did.”  
>  “But in doing so, they are obliged to greater kings without honor. To the undeserving. To lost and unjust causes.”  
>  “Being obliged unjustly and exploitatively is a tragedy and requires the service of others to combat such abominations. But is a lost cause not sometimes worth the fighting? We are all destined to die: deserving and undeserving alike. Does that mean that none should wish to live?”

~

> “Fear…”  
>  “Cuts deeper than swords.”  
>  “So, it is a wound?”  
>  “Yes.”  
>  “Does it heal?”  
>  “It festers.”  
>  “To rid the infection, then…?”  
>  “It must be overcome.”

~

> “Tell me about vengeance.”  
>  “The man who passes the sentence should be the one to swing the sword.”  
>  “It is born of justice?”  
>  “Sometimes.”  
>  “What else is it born of?”  
>  “Love.”  
>  “The desire to hurt can never be born of love. Only of pain.”  
>  “Love is pain.”  
>  “Not physical pain. No matter what they may have for sale in the pleasure houses. Pain may provide pleasure—for some--perhaps. Never love.”  
>  “Watching those you love die, watching them suffer, being without them is pain.”  
>  “Yes. The losing is pain. Suffering is pain. But love endures: despite the sting, despite guilt, despite loss. Being without does not lessen love.” 

~

“Travelling, you’ve met, and perhaps known, many gods.”

Arya allowed one eyebrow to raise itself slightly to express her interest. Some Phases were inherently more intriguing than others. This topic was not one she had yet heard explored inside the Moongarden. She had, in fact, encountered faiths of many types as she travelled the Known and lesser-known world. 

Ni’kyliim continued, “You’ll know, then, that the gods serve us just as much as we serve them. In this way we find purpose for our own actions. Ways of interpreting the world through their eyes that allow us to see ourselves more plainly. Have you ever considered why we cannot alight on one clear image of divinity that encompasses everything we wish to express? Why we resort to practices and metaphors, artwork, sculpture, and song to pay homage? In Westeros, you say, the divine is seven-faced. Your Old Gods inhabit trees. In Braavos? You said ‘many’: an unquantifiable, oblique number. Here, in our Moongarden, three is divine. One is rarely divine…”

Arya interjected, “Then you’ve never encountered the Red Priests and Priestesses of R’hollor.”

The other acolytes looked at her questioningly. 

Arya elaborated, “The Lord of Light? Azor Ahai? Hyrkoon the Hero? Neferion? Eldric Shadowchaser?”

The acolytes merely gazed back at her blankly, none of the names seeming to mean anything to any of them. 

Arya shrugged, “I’ve run into him many times in different places. His followers seem to think he’s a single being.”

“And yet,” Ni’kyliim observed, “you listed…five, six different names for him? Even a lone god has different aspects. What makes him divine?”

“He fought the darkness and defeated it with a flaming sword of light forged in the hearts-blood of his wife.”

“As you have done.”

Arya met the woman’s eyes sharply. “I fought Death.”

“What is Death but darkness? Whose heart was your sword forged in?”

Arya’s mind replayed the vengeance she wrought on Petyr Baelish in her father’s name. Her hand strayed unconsciously to the dagger still and always at her hip: the weapon meant to kill her brother, the weapon that had brought the dawn. And when dawn broke…she was alive and petrified of how to go about living. 

She could feel the eyes of everyone in the room. They weren’t pressing in on her unpleasantly, but waited, patient and compassionate, observing her closely. Arya lowered her hand from the dagger’s hilt. “Mine,” she admitted, “my family’s.”

Ni’kyliim clucked with compassion, “It takes time for a heart to regrow after such sacrifice. There is no shame in that.”

~

After many moons and more Phases than Arya could fathom, on a night when the nearly-full-moon shone brightly through the transom of her sleeping cell, Arya was awoken in the Silent Hour of night. 

“Come. You needn’t dress,” Ni’kyliim asserted as Arya reached for her robes. 

Arya blinked at her perplexed. Her hand strayed to the small shelf beside her bed, hovering over her Valeryian steel.

Ni’kyliim smiled at her reassuringly, but the creases around her eyes tightened reprovingly. She sighed, “The moon is high, Arya. You need bring nothing with you. You know our ways,” she shrugged, “But bring it if you must.” Arya left it.

Ni’kyliim escorted her through the courtyard, around the meditation pool, and through the door upon which the icon of the sphere was inlaid. In all the time she had spent here, Arya realized, it was the only door that had never been open to her. The rambling corridor beyond sloped ever downward in a long, gently winding spiral. At last, a series of twenty-seven arched doorways, each slightly smaller than the last, spaced no farther apart than the width of each door, were unbarred and passed through.

She had to duck, bend, and turn sideface at the final threshold. By the light of the lantern Ni’kyliim brandished, Arya scanned their destination. Despite being underground, the glowing moonstone-walled cavern was surprisingly unchilled: the air close, but warm. It reminded her of the hot-springs beneath Winterfell, although much more elaborately decorated. They stood on a small precipice—a landing peninsula of sorts—with low red-stone benches along the sides. Black marble glistened beneath their feet, descending before them in broad steps into the deep black pool. The room appeared perfectly spherical. A small rain-shower of water fell from the highest curve of the dome. Ni’kyliim’s dark eyes shone like stars in a night sky, her expression tranquil. Arya’s brow furrowed. This place, this sojourn was unexpected. Her mentor smiled gently and spoke reassuringly, “An acolyte of the Moongarden enters their final Phase without warning, when others deem them ready. You are ready. Your trial is now.”

Arya’s eyes darted around the cavern, suddenly wary. The trials of her life that loomed largest in her memory required physical strength and stamina, intense training, bravery, wit, disguise, hardship and danger. This room appeared to offer nothing to fight, nothing to defend, nothing to hide from and nothing to survive. She regarded Ni’kyllim skeptically. The woman gestured for her to disrobe adding, “The water descends to this cavern directly from the Moongarden pool. Each drop is sacred. You will keep vigil here for some time.”

“How long?” Arya asked. She made no move to undress. 

Ni’kyliim merely smiled at her. 

“Am I to escape? Arya asked cynically.

“No, child,” Ni’kyliim almost laughed, her voice warm and reassuring, “Float. The water is warm. I will come for you when your trial is complete.” She moved towards the door.  
“Float?” Arya was incredulous. How, by all the gods, was this a trial? “You’re taking the lantern?” she asked.

“Of course.”

Arya’s eyes fixed on the ring of keys Ni’kyliim held in her hand. She had watched the woman unbar each door on their way in…her eyes darted to the door. There _was_ a keyhole. “You’re locking me in?” Her eyes widened and her stomach felt sick. All twenty-seven doors locked and barred between herself and the outside world? She would be entombed in this watery womb.

Her sudden alarm did not go unnoticed by her mentor. In one swift motion, Ni’kyliim bent and retreated swiftly from the room pushing the door closed in Arya’s startled face. From the other side, her voice reiterated calmly, “I will come for you when your trial is complete. I vow it.” Arya heard the key turn in the lock and the bar drop into place. She placed her eye to the keyhole seeking the retreating lamplight. When it disappeared with the closing of the second door, she placed her ear to the thick wood, listening as the dull thud of each successive door shuddered closed. She was encased in darkness and all was silent except for the soft plinking of waterdrops and ripples reverberating off the walls. She could hear her heart pounding—her breath speeding up as if readying herself for a fight. 

Arya took several deep breaths in and out, trying to quell the panic. She’d grown complacent and comfortable here. She’d felt safe. Or at least safer than she’d ever thought she could feel. Now she was locked in a room so far underground that any noise she made would go unheard. Her mind flashed to Sansa, the children and the old folk retreating to the Winterfell crypts to endure the Long Night and the horrors they had faced there. Her fingers immediately sought the hilt of the throwing knives Gendry had gifted her, belted around her left thigh, under her nightshirt. Despite the house rules, which stated that during the hours in which the moon possessed the sky, weapons could not be carried, she’d always slept with it bound to her. She wondered if she could use them now to pick the locks.

She sat, for a long time, on the bench in the dark, brooding: devising and dismissing plans of escape. A sardonic snicker escaped her: such an underwhelming defeat for the Bringer of Dawn should this be the way she perished! At last, nervous energy propelled her to shuck her nightclothes. Ni’kyliim had said ‘float’; perhaps that was the fastest solution and her best option. 

She’d spent weeks as a blind girl years before. She could survive this darkness. She began mapping the landing peninsula: gathering measurements, gauging the space. Before groping her way down the broad stairs, she ensured that the ties were secure on her leg so she wouldn’t lose the throwing knives. If she acclimated herself well, she wouldn’t need her eyes to hit her target when the door finally opened. 

The steps ended before there was a bottom to reach. She lowered herself slowly into the pool. It was deep. She made some exploratory dives, but the bottom was unreachable, except along the walls, where she could follow the slope of the underwater sphere...until she couldn’t. Lungs bursting, she’d explode to the surface each time. Winded, she swam some lengths between the walls, moving slowly back and forth for what might have been hours until her muscles protested. This wasn’t the type of exercise her body was accustomed to. 

She gained a sense of spatial awareness in the dark. Learned to pinpoint the center from the drips of water falling from above. She thought there must be a hidden drain in the depths of the Moongarden’s sculptured meditation pool. She wondered how the water was warmed, for she knew it to be cool in the garden above. Her racing, anxious thoughts slowly eased.

After a long while, she flipped onto her back resting, floating in the darkness, her body one with the water. It wasn’t like being in a bath or a hot spring. The water was no warmer or cooler than her own body. Eyes open, eyes closed: it didn’t matter: all was darkness. She was completely alone. And then the voices began echoing. Not the hostile, accusing voice that followed her everywhere, inside her own head, but a kinder, probing one—like practice in another Phase.

> “Tell me about want.”  
>  “It’s an ache and a longing.”  
>  “Where does it come from?”  
>  “Absence.”  
>  “Absence of what?”  
>  “Family. Freedom.”  
>  “Contradictory desires, to be sure. But common ones. And here? Now? What do you ache and long for now?”  
>  “Home.” The pad of her thumb traced the dragonglass pommel on her thigh, “Him.”  
>  “Home: yes, a treasure of memory more than a place to attain. Why him?”  
>  “I don’t frighten him. He saw beauty in me when I could see only horror. He’s…proud of the parts of me I don’t like. Even when I tell him truths he doesn’t want to hear. Even when he hasn’t a hope. Even when _I_ haven’t a hope. He never stops. He never stops fighting. For me. Even when I didn’t know it. Stubborn bull.”  
>  “You had his child. You wanted his child.”

Arya’s eyes opened suddenly into the darkness of the cavern. She’d never mentioned anything about having ever borne a child. But this place…it knew things. The way Bran did. She wondered sometimes, since coming here, if the face of the moon was like the face in a heart tree: all-seeing and everywhere. She resumed the Phase:

> “I wanted it for him because I knew he would want it…because of how it felt with him in the _making_.”  
>  “That’s love.”  
>  “That’s _want_.”  
>  “You said want was an ache and a longing borne of absence. To know want is to understand what you are being deprived of and aspire to more. Have you sought the same from others?”  
>  “Briefly. I tried. Once. …No.”  
>  “Why?”  
>  “He wasn’t _him_.”  
>  “That’s not just want then, Arya. That’s love.”  
>  “Not the right kind of love.”  
>  “What is the right kind of love?”  
>  “Being there.”  
>  “Was your parents’ love any less the moment they died? Your brother’s for his wife? For his unborn child? Did you love them any less for their dying?”

Arya’s voice was small, a whisper over an ocean’s gale of feeling as she answered:

> “Yes. They left me alone.”  
>  “And in spite of that you dedicated your entire life to serving them. That doesn’t sound like a lack of love. It sounds like a surfeit of it.”  
>  “But then _I_ left… _ **him**. Them._ I couldn’t do it again.”  
>  “Sometimes not being there is love if you can’t give and provide what’s needed and someone else can. Could you, then?”

Arya’s silence stretched out across the water, seeming to fill the entire chamber. She could hear only her own heartbeat throbbing in her chest, a decided pounding in her temples and felt the welling of tears from her eyes trickling down her temples until they merged with the water of the pool. She had avoided all thought of this for years.

> “By the gods you own, you are one of them. The Stranger with Many Faces who Chases away the Shadows and brings forth the Light. How, loving and sacrificing entirely as a god does, can you then practice love as a mere mortal? Even gods must be reborn to life.” 

Arya wept.

Time ceased. Minutes, hours, how long she had been floating no longer mattered. Arya’s only sense was…sensation. She was this room. This room was her. It held her. Cradled her. She might even have slept. 

Eventually, there was touch. The feeling of warm, strong, calloused hands caressing her neck, her shoulders, her breasts, her sides. She widened her legs in the water and felt nothing but warmth between them, desire spooling low in her belly. She could hear his breath, felt it ghosting across her eyelashes; his lips at her ear; his voice gruffly choked trying to speak her name. She could see the light in his eyes as clear as if he were here with her now, moving above her. She could _feel him_. His fingers massaging her as they had when she was trying to bring forth their son. But now there was no stretching and tearing pain that needed staving off. She moaned and the sound magnified itself, bouncing off the walls of the cavern incessantly. Her back arched, seeking. Her body wanted…wanted… _wanted_ him. The muscles of her thighs and calves tightened. Somehow he _was_ here. Inside her. She didn’t know how, she didn’t know why. This wasn’t like her dreams aboard ship. But she was certain that it _was_ him and not some dark blood magic. Gendry was here, moving inside her. Loving her. Her insides clenched, clutching at the phantom. Suddenly, the feeling crested, and her body convulsed. Her cry of release shattered the darkness, subsumed just as suddenly: the writhing of her climax causing her to sink beneath the water’s surface. 

~

Gendry came awake, back arched from the bed, hoarsely bellowing her name to the rafters. As his heartbeat stuttered back into its normal rhythm and his breathing slowed, he rubbed one hand over his face. He hadn’t dreamed of her that vividly in…years. If ever. It was glorious…and mortifying. Peeling the sheets away, he grimaced. He hated the idea of the maids gossiping over his bedding. He rose, snatching them from the bed, and poured the remnants from a flagon of ale directly onto his besmirched bedclothes before casting them aside into a heap on the floor. He poured himself a cup of water and drank it down. Wrapping himself in the coverlet that his thrashing body had pushed to the bottom of the bedstead, he poured another cup and moved to the window. The moon was watching him, fulsome and glowing, as if she had been the recipient of his pleasure. _She._ He snorted. He’d listened to too many ballads in the Round Hall and was becoming fanciful with age. 

There hadn’t been anything specific to bring Arya to the forefront of his mind—at least not anything more than usual. The image of her as she’d been that long-ago night remained his only fantasy. The one he returned to whenever he needed release. This had not been a private echo of that night: relived furtively and purposefully. This had felt…new. He’d felt her hands on him, heard her voice whispering in his ear, the scrape of her teeth, her body beneath him. (She had never been beneath him.) And the sound she’d made—the one that set his hips thrusting furiously—the one that he had never heard cross her lips before--pitched precisely between agony and bliss… He’d felt _that_ in his bones. He stared into the night, sipping silently for a long time. When his cup was nearly empty, he offered up a humble toast to the vigilant moon, “Wherever you are, love.” Stretching out on the settle, wrapped in nothing but coverlet and moonbeam, he drifted back to sleep. 

~

Conscious thought returned only with the sound of a key turning in the chamber door. Arya continued to float languid and unashamed as lantern-light and Ni’kyliim’s shrouded head appeared. “What was the purpose of this?” Arya asked, sounding softly befuddled.

Her mentor perched on one of the stone benches. “Being alone with oneself and at peace in body and mind is the greatest gift we can give ourselves.”

“I wasn’t alone,” Arya corrected her.

Ni’kyliim glanced at her sharply, “Of course you were. What do you mean?”

Arya drifted towards the stairs, heaved herself out of the water and stood, naked and dripping. “I am never alone. However far I go they’re always with me. Dead or alive they are with me. I cannot lose myself without losing them. And everything I am refuses to be without them.”

Benevolence radiated from Ni’kyliim’s countenance as she opened a towel and drew Arya into a maternal embrace.

~

> _“Who are you?”  
>  “Arya.”  
>  “Where did you come from?”  
>  “Westeros. My family home is Winterfell. I’m the youngest daughter of a great Lord; the younger sister of the Queen in the North, the elder sister of the so-called Broken King of the Six Kingdoms.  
>  “Is that all you are?”  
>  “The Bringer of the Dawn.”  
>  “Is that all you are?”  
>  “I had a baby.”  
>  “Where is the child now?”  
>  “With his father.” She waits for the lash to strike her, for the punishment she thinks she deserves for leaving, but it doesn’t come.  
>  “Why not with you?”  
>  “Life hurt too much… I wasn’t ready.”  
>  “Are you ready now?”  
>  “I want to be ready now.” She hears the lash clatter as it falls to the floor.  
>  “Then be ready. Be who you are and be whole.”_

Arya rose from her final vigil by the Moongarden pool, turned, and walked out the door into the streets of the city and the wider world. It was time to return to her ship.

It was time to go home.


	6. Turning Tides

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hart becomes accustomed to The North.   
> Gendry contends with Hart's maturing from a distance.  
> Arya arrives in Westeros.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I make a couple of references to things from the broader ASOIAF lore here that were not included in ShowCanon.
> 
> This story, like Arya, takes its own sweet time getting places. Thanks for sticking with it!  
> I'm so encouraged by every comment shared with me as things ravel themselves onward and am so grateful to everyone for their excitement and analysis.

#### Winterfell

When Hart thought back on that journey North, he always recollected Yara’s first words to him as they sailed away from the shores of the Stormlands, standing at the rail of her ship, watching his father’s form fade as they moved further out to sea. 

“I never knew your mother. The only time I ever saw her was at the Dragonpit Council where we elected the King. Seems she was expecting you then?”

Hart’s countenance was solemn as he gazed out at the waves, allowing, “Father always said she told him about me right after that meeting.”

With a curt nod, Yara continued, “She didn’t take to me. Nearly pulled that catspaw dagger she’d used on the Night King when I made a suggestion she didn’t care for. She was fierce. And loyal. She held her own. Seemed like someone I could respect. But that’s all I know of her. If you have questions, you’ll have to talk to Sansa. If you don’t have questions, well, that’s between you and her as well.”

“Will everyone in the North know who I am?” Hart had asked, quietly.

Yara had shaken her head. “No. I’m told some of the few remaining old-folk might come to suspect if they think to see beyond your father’s name and station. Your eyes gave it away to Sansa. Said it was like looking into the past when she looked down and saw her father’s eyes staring back at her. But no. None but Sansa and myself know for certain.”

That casual insight brought with it the first tendrils of warm connection. He didn’t just have his mother’s eyes, they were his _grandfather’s_ eyes too. Maybe countless other Starks had seen that same pewter shade gazing back at them from their own looking-glasses. _This_ was the reason he’d wanted to come North. His father had been generous with stories about his mother, but Hart knew there had to be other parts of her to which he remained ignorant and without access. Da’s memories were clouded by his love for her. By his regret of her. Other people would have other, differently biased memories. Hart wanted access to as many of them as he could obtain. 

The first morning he’d met privately with Queen Sansa was a little less than two weeks following his arrival. She’d initially seemed formidable: unemotional and formal.

“Tell me how you find the North.”

“Everyone has made me very welcome, Your Grace.”

“Good. Everyone?”

Hart nodded. “I’ve heard stories from people who met my father when he was here. That they remember him from such a brief period, so long ago, was a surprise to me. It shouldn’t have been—he’s a talented smith, a stalwart person and our own people respect him greatly—why it should surprise me that he would have been the same before he was ennobled reflects more on my own ignorance.”

Queen Sansa’s polite smile was not lacking in irony as she admitted, “I didn’t know your father then. The first I recollect taking notice of him he was being made a lord in our Great Hall by Daenerys Targaryen. I do recall that he helped to shore up our smithy before he went south to muster his own new forces for Jon. He owed his lordship to _her_ , but he was loyal to…us.” 

Hart wasn’t sure how to respond to that. It seemed as if she were alluding—in the vaguest possible terms—to her sister, his mother: _but was she_? It made him wonder, for the first time, what she knew— _if anything_ —about her sister’s relationship with his father. “I suppose you understand why, now, Your Grace?” he’d eventually replied. Asking the question had made Hart’s heart feel as if it were beating in his throat. 

The queen had frowned and shaken her head, “Somewhat. Although it seems he would have had every reason to write all of us off. He could have taken his lands and title and ignored the rest of us. Or he could have backed the Dothraki and the Unsullied and taken more power for himself.”

Hart’s surprise at the very notion of his father making a play for more power made him chortle, “He’s not like that, Your Grace. I think he’d give lording up completely if he didn’t think he owed it to his people. On particularly difficult days, he’s often told me that if he could, he’d retire to the forge.”

“You intend to take on the Stormlands, then?” Sansa inquired, rather archly. 

“Oh, I want to! I’ve always wanted to. Father said that I shouldn’t feel obligated, but I can’t help it. They’re my people.”

Sansa’s expression became suddenly wistful, “You sound like Robb.” 

“Your brother?”

The queen nodded. “He had his faults—a propensity to trust in the honour and understanding of others among them—but he would have made a great lord and a just king.”

“And you…don’t…believe in those things?”

“I believe in family. I believe in the North. I believe that winter is coming. And I believe that when winter arrives it is best to be prepared.”

In much the same way his father had shared tales, from that point forward, Queen Sansa imparted her own lessons, one evening a week, in her solar. Often, their conversation was entirely strategic and impersonal—deconstructing the legalities, economics, geography and interpersonal politics of the North. Other times she might offer a common northern tale or make references to Stark family lore and traditions. She was not generous with them, the way Da was, Hart reflected. Each disclosure felt as if he were picking his way along a trail of bird seed. It was clear that his aunt’s life had not been altogether easy and there were parts of it she had truly locked away and to which she had no intention of returning. Where his father might get broody, Queen Sansa went frosty. Hart knew how to josh his father’s gloom away, but he’d had to learn new strategies to employ against the Queen of the North. Patient silence without pushing himself in where she wasn’t disposed to go was usually his best tactic. But he’d learned others too. He’d watched Yara’s brash joviality succeed in coaxing a smile out of Sansa on days when her temper seemed short and her appraising silences long. 

Hart recalled the first evening the three of them dined together, alone. “Your Lordship. My Love,” Yara’d greeted them both then bent to kiss Sansa gently. Hart averted his eyes out of politeness. He was unaccustomed to intimate romantic displays. 

As Yara recounted her day, Hart studied the pair of them. They were completely at ease in one another’s company. Had his parents ever been that way with one another? He had no idea whatsoever. Those weren’t the types of things that occurred to a child imagining the trials and capers of his father’s survival stories. But now, watching the casual companionability of the loving relationship before him, he did wonder.

“How did you meet?” he suddenly felt himself blurting. His cheeks flushed at the impertinence of the question as both women’s eyes fell on him and their conversation faded.

Yara’s eyes sparked. “The day Bran was elected King of the Six Kingdoms. Hadn’t intended to see eye-to-eye with any of the Starks, but Sansa sent me word later that day that she would share what my brother’s last days were like, should I care to hear it, if I were to join her for a meal.”

Sansa’s usually stoic expression softened slightly, “She’s speaking of her brother, Theon, who was fostered here at Winterfell with us—as you now are. He died defending Bran from the Night King, here, in the godswood.”

“I didn’t mean to raise unpleasant memories,” Hart apologized, “Father has told me what he feels able to about that time.”

Sansa’s eyes sharpened, “Feels able to?”

The eyes of the two queens felt like they were dissecting him. “The Others. The battle. The…dead. It’s not something he relishes talking about, Your Grace.”

The queen had taken a sip of her wine before answering, “Those of us in the North are faced with the daily reminder of all we lost and fought to maintain. That’s partly why I wanted you here. The North needs people to speak of it. To learn from it. To know the signs should it ever begin again. Despite The Wall and The Watch people forget. _The North Remembers_ , you see. The words are for a reason.”

~

One evening, nearly a year after his arrival, when it was just the two of them reclining by the fire, Sansa observed with a considering sidelong glance, “You’ve never asked about her. In all this time: not once. Don’t you have questions?”

Hart took a sip of his ale before replying, “You didn’t bring her up, Your Grace. It would have been impolitic—not to mention impolite—for me to do so first.”

Sansa conceded the point with a clipped nod of her head and a terse compliment: “Shrewd.” 

“But, Your Grace," Hart hurried on, not wanting to let the moment escape, "don’t mistake my silence for a lack of curiosity." Leaning forward, propping his hands on his thighs, Hart continued, “I’ve been learning all I can from Maester Wolkan and, well,” he shrugged, “anyone I can, really.” 

Sansa waved the maester away, “Wolkan didn’t know her. Not really. Not like his predecessor Maester Lewin who knew us both from birth. What would you know, then, about my sister?” Sansa’s blue gaze was pointed, one eyebrow upraised.

Hart thought her eyes suddenly felt like piercing needles. “Whatever you can tell,” he averred, “Knowing anything at all sheds light.”

He watched Sansa take another sip of her wine. Setting the cup aside, she leaned forward herself, almost confidingly, “Did your father ever…?” her cheeks flushed and she quickly reached to take another sip of wine before continuing, “What do you know about their relationship?”

Hart’s eyebrow quirked. Evidently whatever he knew was more than she did. Apparently, this was to be an information _exchange_. His aunt was clever, but he could play that game. He shrugged, “They were friends. He loved her. She wanted him with her when I was born so he was. She left. He continues to love her. That’s all that should concern you, Your Grace. That’s all that’s ever mattered to me.”

Sansa’s expression had grown suddenly much more relaxed than he’d ever seen it. “She never wanted that sort of thing,” the Queen observed contemplatively, studying the fire, “I always did. Was besotted by the idea of it when I was your age. Naively so, as it happens. To the point of endangering myself and everyone I loved. My aspirations—my blindness—helped murder my father, my brother, his wife and unborn child, my mother, and legions of northern men. My existence and position were exploited over and over again by men—and women-- who wanted what my name could bring them. First Joffrey and the Lannisters, Littlefinger, and…” Sansa set her teeth and scowled. She took another gulp of her wine before waving away the last name, wordlessly. “They use us all to get what we have. Arya understood that our lives never belonged to us. She rebelled against that from the moment she could run. Always wild in the woods, Arya Underfoot making friends with the smallfolk, disappearing from comportment lessons and hiding from our septa so she could practice with the boys instead of working on her stitching with the ladies. My sister often seemed like a scroll written in a language I did not understand. But she was canny and skilled and bold in ways I am not. I used to despise her for that,” she confided. 

Hart asked curiously, “You don’t now?”

Sansa shook her head, “We made peace with one another years ago. Not long before you. Before the Long Night. She came back after seven years away. She’d disappeared from King’s Landing before Joffrey had our father killed and I was certain she was dead. Hadn’t seen or heard tell of her in years. Then she waltzed into Winterfell wearing common garb and wielding that sword Jon had given her—Needle, she called it—and had plainly developed quite some skill with it. I’ve watched you training in the yard. You’re very like her. Are you aware of that?”

Hart nodded, his cheeks flushing at the implied compliment. The stories he’d heard here from the castle servants and smallfolk and in the halls of the bannermen they’d visited about what they’d witnessed before and during the Long Night always made reference to Lady Arya. To her prowess, her determination, her unflagging _fight_. 

“She was different. Guarded. More ruthless. I’d changed too. Grown harder. Lost the same people. It made it possible for us to work together in a way we couldn’t while we were growing up. I didn’t appreciate our differences then. I only thought of how embarrassing she was with her grubby hands, torn hems, and mortifying declarations. I only thought about how she might colour how people would perceive me. She never seemed to care about what people thought of her.”

Hart seemed to ponder her words for several minutes. “I think, Your Grace, from things father has told me and a story Lord Snow shared about how she came by the sword you mentioned: Needle. I think she did care. I think she cared more than she wanted people to know. But she knew she wasn’t you. Couldn’t be you. So, she had to be herself. You know?”

The queen eyed her nephew thoughtfully before replying, “I’m not sure she deserves you.”

Hart blinked at her, he didn’t understand her meaning, “Pardon, Your Grace?”

Sansa fluttered a hand at him, waving away his confusion, “You’ve a very…generous…understanding of someone you’ve never known.”

Hart frowned and for a moment Sansa glimpsed in the bite of his lip and the tilt of his chin, more evidence of her sister. His brow cleared and he offered, consideringly, “I don’t think it’s exactly generous, Your Grace. The only person who could have stopped my being here is her, and she didn’t. Nobody I’ve met who knew her seems exactly sure why. But I’m here. I’m me. I can’t help that any more than she could help being her, or you can help being you. What’s more, she made sure that I would grow up in the care of someone who loves me. For her choice of my father alone, I owe her the courtesy of my respect.”

Sansa’s eyebrows had nearly risen to her hairline over the course of this speech. “I think,” cynicism laced her tone, as she rose from her chair to dismiss him for the evening, “perhaps…I may have underestimated your father.”

Shrugging, Hart replied disarmingly, “People do. Particularly highborns who’ve always been highborn. Once they’ve had dealings with him though…,” Hart grinned, “He won’t let himself live down to their expectations of a lowly baseborn smith. I won’t either. Good night, Your Grace.” He departed with a nod and a bow. 

When Yara joined her in their bed that night, Sansa couldn’t help musing, “Everything I dreamed as a child and somehow, _Arya_ got it. Never wanted it. Still _doesn’t_ want it. Love. Devotion. A child. The gods make fools of us all!”

Yara gently stroked her fingers through Sansa’s hair, murmuring, “Two out of three, love. Or are you trying to tell me something different?”

Sansa twisted herself onto her side so that she could meet Yara’s eyes, “I’m sorry. I wasn’t meaning to dismiss _you_. You know what I mean.” She kissed Yara, softly apologetic. 

“That _this_ ,” Yara’s hand pressed itself against the small of Sansa’s back pulling her closer, “doesn’t look much like the ballads you heard. That the truth of a thing doesn’t always look like what it is.”

Sansa nodded, “Arya could always see that better than I. She was never fooled by Joffrey. She saw value in _people_ —not just their appearances and titles. It took me longer than it should have to learn to see through those things and their honeyed words to the people underneath.”

“You envy her the child she got as a result,” Yara affirmed.

Sansa sighed, “It’s just…she _could_ have left him with me. Come back here from King’s Landing. Even gone off exploring if she wanted to once he was born. Raised him as the Stark heir—just as in the legend of Bael the Bard. But she chose _him_ over her family. Over me, over Bran, even over Jon.”

Yara couldn’t help her amused smirk as she rationalized, “Well, not leaving him with Bran can’t really be that much of a surprise? Can you _imagine_?”

Sansa’s lips pressed themselves together and she fixed her partner with a gimlet eye. 

Yara persisted, her fingers playing with the ends of Sansa’s long hair, “Maybe he _is_ her family. Theon was your brother more than he ever was mine, despite the blood in his veins. And yet, somehow, his death brought us together. Helped unite us as partners. As for Jon—as I recall he was so broken he could barely look after himself then. Headed north, still a target for the Unsullied. Much as you say he was her favourite…perhaps not the wisest choice at the time? Your sister’s no fool.”

Sansa’s voice came softly, “And me?”

Yara gathered her closer, hand cradling Sansa’s face and gazing deeply into her eyes, “Love, do you honestly think that you’d have been able to make that lad turn out any better than he has if he’d grown up here? You and I? I’m hard and you’re cold. That boy’s a strong, blazing furnace because he grew up in a forge. Even with all his warmth, he’s been here almost a year and this is the first time you’ve truly thawed out enough to open up to him. If all he’d ever known was here…” Yara’s voice trailed off, dubious. 

“You’re right,” Sansa admitted, letting herself relax into Yara’s warmth, “No. I couldn’t have. But I want her to have wanted me to. I want to have been able to.”

“Then make the most of the time you have with him now. Neither your gods nor mine often give second chances.”

~

#### Storm’s End

Gendry rose from his desk, stretching. He’d spent a long time reading and re-reading Hart’s latest letter. Nearing the end of his second year in the North, the boy had, apparently, fallen in love. Rena Tallhart served Queen Sansa as one of her ladies. Consulting with Maester Ormund, Gendry determined that she was of-an-age with Hart, and of solid northern lineage: Houses Tallhart, Hornwood, and Glover went directly into the making of her. He sighed. Her family had sided with Stannis Baratheon against the Boltons, fought with Robb Stark against the Lannisters, and there was no good reason—at least in recent history—to be wary of the match. He read his boy’s words again.

_We go hunting together when her duties permit and she a fine archer, even from horseback. But her favourite pastime is collecting herbs and distilling remedies. She works with the castle midwives and the Queen has ensured that she can take those interests further by studying with Maester Wolkan. He says she could attend The Citadel and forge several silver links, she’s that capable and knowledgeable. You used to joke that if I were as smart as I thought I was, I’d like clever girls. She’s clever, Da._

_She’s got glowing amber eyes and a scar along her temple where she was grazed by an arrow as a child when her younger brother—Bran—was first learning how to shoot. He nearly took her eye out, but she laughs that it’s kept her from becoming vain and made Bran redouble his efforts out of remorse to become the best shot in the North. Of course, I think she’s beautiful. And the way she handles people! She listens hard to everyone—even to the things they don’t say—all the time, and then finds simple ways of making them feel special. Hero adores her; moons over her almost as badly as I’m inclined to. I know you’d like her: she tells me when I’m making an ass of myself but always in a teasing, improving-kind of way. She worships the Old Gods and so we walk together and sit in the godswood in silence for hours and it’s never felt uncomfortable. I like her. No. That’s a lie. I love her. She loves me. And we work together. I know this isn’t how things are usually done for highborns—finding love first, I mean—but that’s what’s happened Da. I love her. If her people are amenable to it, I’d like her to be my Lady of Storm’s End. And even if they aren’t…I think she’d have me all the same._

Gendry blew out a breath as he reread Hart’s last sentences again. A Lady of Storm’s End. Gendry chuckled: Mistress Tallhart sounded as if she would certainly make a more obliging one than his own choice would have done. In spite of everything he still thought Arya could have made a better lady than she gave herself credit for. At the same time, he could see now how Arya had seen herself then: the battle-scarred hero assassin trying to “play lady.” He groaned internally. He’d never really forgiven himself for making that request. He’d been so focused on the fact that he’d been raised into who he needed to be to deserve her that he’d forgotten in that moment who she was. The smith was enough: she’d never needed him to be a Lord. He’d only demanded that of himself and had thwarted his own objectives doing so. If he had only waited, chosen not to take up the mantle of lordship and gone with her instead… But that way lay madness. He remembered how detached she’d become immediately following Hart’s birth. Even if she’d allowed him to stay with her— _them_ to stay with her… He’d known from the instant he’d first cradled Hart in his arms that he’d give their boy as much of the world as he possibly could. Being Lord Paramount of the Stormlands ensured that he would be able to.

Gendry sank again into his desk chair and began a letter to Sansa.

_Your Grace,_

_Hart tells me that he has formed an attachment to one of your ladies. Would you be so good as to share your impressions of this young woman with me? I trust that you would not encourage any friendship that would not serve your own purposes, but would appreciate a frank assessment of her character and person. I would also value knowing the aspirations of her family as regards her future._

_Lastly, as these past years have made it clear that you care for the happiness of my boy: is she worthy of him? He is young and, despite his time in the North, has not been forced to walk through all Seven Hells as you and I have. Would she be the sort to be able to battle those challenges alongside him?_

_I look forward to your reply._

_\- Gendry Baratheon, Lord of Storm’s End_

He _did_ look forward to her reply. His regular correspondence with Sansa Stark—particularly over the past year—had become a truly surprising joy. Their opinions often differed, but having someone else invested in Hart’s welfare…it had felt…good.

Her reply came quickly:

_Rena is a comely girl: walnut-haired and lively. Well-mannered, well-bred, intelligent, blithe and without malice. She is attuned to the needs of others and has both the skills and impulse to make herself of use. Her true name is Berena, and is the eldest of Brandon Tallhart’s four children. As I’m certain your maester has informed you, Brandon is the heir to Torrhen’s Square and Rena’s younger brother his heir. The Tallhart words are ‘proud and free’ and she embodies them: she is no pushover and holds firm to her convictions. I believe she would make your son an excellent companion and that her family would be more than satisfied with such a match._

_Notwithstanding all of the above: they are truly besotted with one another. When he comes to attend me, his eyes search for her, and lighting upon her, he beams. She glows in equal measure. Bards would find ample inspiration observing them. I am confident, as I write, that they are both conducting themselves honorably, but judging by their flushed cheeks and rushed breaths when myself or Lady Yara have entered a room, as well as the studied air with which they drift apart, I expect that if they have not already, they soon will have shared more than a few stolen kisses._

_Should the match find your favor, I would be delighted to host the festivities at Winterfell. I expect that you would wish to be present for such an occasion and your presence would include a retinue much more easily accommodated at Winterfell than at Torrhen’s Square._

_More important to the North, however, would be the terms under which they enter their marriage. I would hope to discuss those with you, privately, in person, once you make your way North._

_That Hart has found love and happiness in the North brings me much satisfaction. That he might marry a Northern girl from a proud Northern House offers a potential solution to my own woes. For now, I shall leave the matter there. There is no indication that I shall not endure for many years and more. But The Stranger comes for us all, and I intend to leave the North in capable hands when my time comes._

Gendry leaned back, dropping the letter on the desk as he did so. He wasn’t certain what Sansa’s plans for the terms of his son’s marriage could possibly be but…he shrugged. The rules always seemed to be whatever lords and ladies, kings and queens made them. If Sansa Stark wanted his son on her throne, despite tradition and precedent, he was confident she’d find a way to make it happen. 

He stood, stretching widely, then grasped the letter and went in search of Maester Ormund. He’d need to seek advice. Regardless of the Queen of the North’s machinations, his son and heir was in love. Decisions must be made. 

~

#### Hardhome ◦ Beyond the Wall

Arya’s journey home was neither direct, nor easy. As they approached Lys, having sailed westward through the Jade and Summer Seas, following the coast of Sothoryos, byway of Naath and the Summer Isles, she’d resolved that she wanted to see Jon first. He’d been as damaged and undone as she the last time they’d embraced. His exile into the barren lands beyond The Wall had been an act of penance in much the same way she had tried to lose herself to the sea. At least, she’d understood that to be his unspoken plan—no matter the dictates of Dothraki, Unsullied, and Lords of the Realm. They’d always understood one another the best. Finding out he wasn’t her brother had been another blow on top of all the others her battered body and beleaguered soul had borne in those days following the Long Night. She recognized, now, that it was another chink in the armor that contributed to the sundering of her own identity. Another breach that she’d needed time to restructure and heal. She hoped he’d managed the same. Besides, heading North first would give her time to understand the lay of the land in the south. Gendry might have… but here her thoughts always stalled, unwilling to actively consider what, exactly, Gendry might have.

Through her spyglass, Arya gazed out toward Hardhome—a resurrected Wildling settlement where a horn blasted; in welcome she hoped. The Free Folk _did_ trade now, apparently, rather than raid. She’d learned so when they made port briefly in Braavos for supplies. A merchant hired them to deliver goods in exchange for furs, pelts, and decorative boneware. Evidently, Wildling art was becoming highly sought after in the Free Cities. Near extinction combined with a glorious tale of survival against all odds had a curious effect on art and commerce, Arya thought, wryly. One of the bearded men raised his arm, hailing the ship, his motions ever more exaggerated and eager. Arya felt a jolt of recognition: Jon. Older, more grizzled and weather-beaten, but most certainly Jon. By the time she was rowed to the shore he was hurtling across the stony banks towards her. Launching herself out of the boat, she splashed through the shallows to fling herself into his arms.

Embracing her tightly he growled quietly into her ear, “Had an inkling you were coming. You’ll never guess how. We need to talk. In private. And you should know: I’ve seen your wolf pup.”

Arya froze in his arms at the words, the entire world fading completely away and the image of the fresh-born, dark haired, grey-eyed infant clouding her vision. She pulled away, her eyes searching Jon’s with a mixture of apprehension and defiance. What did he mean? Did he know about…?

Jon’s gaze was steady, warm and, as ever, slightly sad but as she remained stoic and silent beside him, he wrapped one arm around her shoulders and squeezed her again saying more loudly, “Let’s walk awhile. I’d like to hear about all your adventures.” 

Once they were clear of the settlement and wandering amongst the trees, Arya looked up at him with trepidation. Jon whistled, and Ghost appeared moments later. On his heels was a gorgeous grey direwolf who pulled up fast at the sight of the humans. Arya gasped. The direwolf cocked her head and stared Arya down. Ghost snuffled against Jon’s legs and was rewarded with a few friendly pats, before he began investigating Arya. Jon spoke low, doing his utmost not to spook the other direwolf. “She turned up little more than a moon past. Was skulking around outside the village making all the animals skittish. They’ve become accustomed to Ghost, but this one—she’s mostly wild. But she made friends with him. Quick as a flash. Like they’d already known each other. Thought maybe he’d found a mate. But they’re not…” he paused thoughtfully, “They’re more like littermates…like pack.”

Arya took a single cautious step towards the majestic wolf, the gust of a question between her lips, “Nymeria?” The direwolf sidestepped tentatively, her ears pricking towards Arya. “It can’t really be _you_ , can it? After all these years? You can’t _still_ know me,” she murmured incredulously. In spite of her words, some instinctual part of Arya stretched out her hand fearlessly entreating the creature closer. The direwolf’s neck stretched and she sniffed distrustfully in the direction of Arya’s ungloved fingertips. Arya heard Jon’s breath catch and she held her own as the wolf’s tongue suddenly darted out, tasting her. In seconds, a furry head was nuzzling itself under her palm and she was scratching behind the wolf’s ears. Ghost let out a snort, as if saying, “About time.” Arya and Jon’s eyes met over their wolves and they grinned incandescently at one another. 

“’S why I suspected you were coming,” Jon confided, as they began walking again, the wolves scampering in and out of the trees around them. “Bran said you would, some years ago. Not that I didn’t believe him but… it’s been a lifetime, Arya.”

She just nodded at him, silently, watching the wolves chase one another, joy suffusing her features. It was almost enough just to look at her after all this time, but Jon had questions. Deliberately, he mulled, “Made sense of another thing I’d heard too…” Arya looked up at him and his words rushed out of him on a single exhaled breath, “Gendry said a direwolf gave him her pup in the woods the year his boy turned three—said he told the boy it was a gift from his mother.” 

Arya’s eyes were the size of saucers as they flashed back to the capering outline of the grey wolf amongst the trees. Her mouth firmed and twisted as though locking her words more tightly inside. Jon offered her another opening, “At least, that’s what Gendry thought. Do you…” Jon paused, weighing his words, then continued, “With Ghost, sometimes, I have dreams where I’m him. But they’re not really dreams at all. The Free Folk call it warging. I’m a warg. I’m fairly certain Bran is too—and not just with wolves. Do you ever…?”  
Arya’s lips had parted in shock at his words and she nodded vigorously, “I thought they were just vivid dreams…but now…maybe…?” 

“Maybe you did gift your pup a pup of his own?” Arya felt all the breath in her body leave her. There was no point trying to hide or deny anything: Jon _knew_. 

“He’s a fine lad,” Jon began, his voice level and low, “Canny. Open. Has the look of his father—mostly.” Jon’s eyes darted sideways to gauge Arya’s expression.

Her gaze was focused on the knots and whorls of the tree-bark now, but he saw her shoulders sag briefly with relief and her head give the slightest tilt of acknowledgement before she replied, “I only saw him right after he was born—for just a moment. But that was true then.”

“Has your eyes though. Father’s eyes.”

“You still think of him as Father?” Arya asked, her tone betraying the slightest surprise. 

“Aye. He’s the only one I’ve ever known. Same as you’re my little sister.”

Her arms came around him then, and he felt her shaking with tears in his arms. This was a side to her she hadn’t shown in years. He could remember finding her crying with frustration, alone, as a tiny little thing but this wasn’t the tearful temper of a child—this was the grief of a woman who had known more than her share of loss. He patted her back with one hand and stroked her hair with the other, pressing soft kiss after soft kiss to her temple until her trembling stopped and she pulled away, wiping the tears from her cheeks forcefully, her mouth twisted as if she were annoyed with herself.

“Thank you,” she said, to Jon’s surprise. At his quizzical expression, she elaborated, “I spent a long time learning how to be able to do that. Feel things without closing them down and shutting them off.”

Jon swallowed against the lump in his throat, “Still learning how to do that myself.”

Arya nodded. Haltingly, she asked, “Where did you see him? What’s he like?”

“At Storm’s End. Went south four years ago, or so, to see Bran once he sent word that my presence wouldn’t set things off again. Wanted to see Gendry while I was there—he and I had forged a friendship—so I thought. But that friendship was founded on some things that I wasn’t aware of, it seems.”

“He liked you. You were friends.”

“Aye. But he was predisposed to. Liked what he knew of me from the tales you’d told him. He already felt he owed you. Told me as much when I spoke with him. Said he failed you not going to The Twins when you asked.”

Arya’s look of surprise caught Jon off-guard. “He never spoke of that with you?”

Arya suddenly couldn’t meet his eyes, “We…we just sort of always… _understood_ one another. There’s lots we never said. You remember what those days were like. No time for anything but necessity. The impending doom…” As she risked a glance at Jon’s face, she could see he was white as a sheet. _Of course_ he remembered. No one who’d been there would ever forget. She reached for Jon’s hand and squeezed it between both of her own. He glanced down at her and the ghosts of that day faded. 

“As for the boy,” Jon resumed, once he’s cleared his throat, “He’s a good swordsman—lithe and fast like you. Well-mannered. Kind. No fool though—he studies everything. He and Gendry are more than passing fond of one another.”

“What’s his name?” Arya asked softly, this new information coursing through her like fresh water after days in the desert. The connections between them all were real. More real than she’d ever let herself believe. “I’ve never known…”

Jon’s eyebrows reached his hairline, “Hart.”

Arya snorted, shaking her head, a reluctant smile pulling at her lips, “Stupid bull.”

~

Jon and Arya supped in company before retiring to his hut. It was a small, with only one room and a loft, but it was solidly built and somewhere they could speak privately. 

“Did he…ask…anything about me?” Arya’s voice was tentative.

Which one was she asking about? The lad or Gendry? Jon’s forehead wrinkled, parsing the question before replying, “Gendry kept that secret close, Arya. The boy didn’t know I was any relation to him—or to his mother—when I met him.”

Jon’s careless use of the term sent a jolt down Arya’s spine. Mother. She supposed she _was_ , but the word held other meanings for her that it couldn’t ever possibly hold for the child. Her child. She eyed Jon judiciously before posing the question that had only just occurred to her. “How did you think of yours? Before you knew who she was, I mean. And after,” she added, more quietly.

“Well…” Jon took the time to consider her questions seriously. But then, he always had. That was what she’d always loved about him. “It’s likely different. I’d always had the vague suspicion that she’d died. Couldn’t see why Father would have brought me North, otherwise. They’d all settled into it by the time you were born, but those early years…before Sansa came and it was just Robb and Theon and I…I wished for her. Couldn’t understand how Robb was so petted and even Theon treated more kindly than I was. After…well she _was_ dead, but I knew she’d wanted me. That mattered.” Jon’s dark eyes darted toward her, “Gendry never let him think you were dead, you know. Nearly threw a punch at me when I even dared make the suggestion.”

“He’s loyal.”

“Because he loves you.”

Arya’s astonished eyes met Jon’s. 

An inadvertent grin eclipsed Jon’s usually taciturn expression, as he asked incredulously, “That can’t come as a shock, surely?”

She was silent, a cascade of shifting emotions passing across her face. Arya shook her head slowly as she answered, “It’s just…how can he? I didn’t think… Still?” She’d nearly whispered the last word and Jon had to strain to hear it.

Jon nudged her shoulder with his own. “It was obvious four years ago. I can’t speak for now. But if he’d held out hope that long and was that willing to fight to hold on to it…,” Jon shrugged, “What’s another four years? Besides,” Jon’s eyes had narrowed challengingly, “Aren’t you…still?”

Arya made a low-pitched growling noise deep in her throat.

Jon knew when to back off. He changed course, returning to her earlier question. “Gendry’d told him who I was—told him your name—before I left Storm’s End. It was all still new for him. He looked at me a lot. Figured he was trying to find something in my features that he might recognize in his own. I know what that’s like—and at least I knew who to look for it in. Father, Uncle Benjen...you. Until then, he didn’t. Mostly we talked of Ghost and his Hero. Of my recollections of the time Gendry and I spent travelling. He already knew those stories. He was looking to confirm those tales.”

Arya was listening avidly, her gaze far away, imagining elsewhere. 

Jon added, “We talked about Needle.” 

Arya’s eyes met his again. 

“Gendry’d told him some. But I could tell him about the day I gave it you. The way your eyes sparkled when you looked up at me holding it so proudly. And how you leapt into my arms to thank me. And why you named it what you did. He was curious about that.”

“What’d you say?”

“That Sansa had her needles and now you had your own. A right proper one for the type of girl you were. That as sisters you couldn’t be more different, but where one struggled the other always shone.”

Bemusement suffused Arya’s expression and she scoffed, “What are you? Some kind of bard now? You’ve never said anything like that before.”

“Didn’t always appreciate Sansa for what she was myself. She’s a lot like your mother to look at and that held its’ own baggage for me. Was right full of herself when we were children too. Took courtesy and appearances so seriously. She was insufferable a lot of the time. But she took her cues from your mother. From Septa Mordane. ‘Specially when it came to me. She learned better, later. You knew better, always.”

Arya smiled wryly, “The Moongarden made me think about us that way.”

Curiosity momentarily washed the perpetual frown from Jon’s brow, “The Moongarden?” he asked.

Arya nodded, “I trained my mind there. Found that there’s reasons for why we’re the way we are. I learned to see _through_ and _beyond_ when Sansa could only see. But I wasn’t good at seeing _myself_. I could only see what I wasn’t. For a long, long time. But Syrio was right. _Fear cuts deeper than swords_. Fear of not living up to what was expected of me—of not being enough—of losing… _more_ —of not being _the right **kind**_ of lady kept me away for longer than it should. I’m not giving in to that anymore. It just deprives everyone—including myself. I’m strong enough now.”

Jon snorted, “You were always strong enough.”

“Not then. At least, I couldn’t see it then. I’d been surviving so long that I didn’t understanding living. I only understood Death. And I didn’t want Death anywhere near _him_.” 

“Which him?” Jon risked the question this time, his voice gruff and almost inaudible.

Arya met his eyes wordlessly, her grey eyes fathomless. 

Silently, Jon beckoned her closer and she burrowed into his embrace.


	7. Walls & Boundaries, Breaches & Bonds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hart goes on a bachelor-trip to The Wall.   
> Arya and Jon head south, bound for Winterfell.  
> Things collide.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It appears I am incapable of writing short chapters. #SorryNotSorry  
> This one was A LOT. I hope you like it and that it lives up to any expectations you might hold.
> 
> As ever, I am so grateful to those of you who continue to leave comments (large or small). To those of you who have told me you intend to read it all when it's finished and comment at the end: your anticipation inspires me to keep going and make it as strong a story as I can. Thank you.

####  Castle Black, The Wall 

Listening to Rawly and his other mates—Northern and Stormlander—each and all of them making jokes and learning to enjoy one another’s company, Hart reflected on the moons that led him here.

When Da arrived, with what seemed like the entirety of Storm’s End in his procession, he’d felt anxious. His lives were colliding. He knew Rena and Da would get along, but it was all so formal and final and _fraught_ at first. He _had_ worried about how his father would perceive his relationship with Queen Sansa. He’d learned to admire and appreciate the cunning she’d acquired over the course of her life and how it could be helpful in wrangling others. His father’s style when faced with a problem was firmness and an honesty that was so blunt it was sometimes painful. Hart had learned subtlety and the art of keeping close in the Northern court. 

Da’s raven granting permission for betrothal negotiations to advance had arrived mere days before Rena’s sixteenth nameday (being a handful of moons older than himself). Queen Sansa had summoned him to the Great Hall and informed them both with an uncharacteristically wide smile adorning her face. The ladies and maidservants twittered and cheered, swirling around Rena gleefully while his mates and Lady Yara surrounded him, clapping him on the back heartily. Wedding festivities were set to take place on his own sixteenth nameday. The moons that followed brought forth flurry after flurry of ravens, merchant wagons from White Harbour, and envoys from House Tallhart. They also brought seemingly endless meetings and discussions on every possible topic that could exist between adjoining nations and families. The memory of an afternoon spent with Rena after one such discussion made Hart’s chest warm and an anticipatory fire kindle in the pit of his belly.

He’d found Rena in the godswood with an odd expression on her lovely face. Bending to brush a light kiss across her temple, she’d warded him off with one hand, tugged on his other firmly, and dragged him down beside her demanding, “Did they send you after me?”

Bewildered, he’d asked, “What? Who? Why?”

She’d blown a frustrated breath between her lips. He’d wanted to kiss them, make whatever it was better, but she was clearly not in the mood. She’d crossed one leg over the other, turned toward him slightly, and huffed, “ _Them._ The Queen. My mother. Maester Wolkan.”

“No…” Hart answered, his fingers fumbling to take her hand into his own. “What did they want that’s upset you?”

Rena ruffled her shoulders, “It’s not that they’ve upset me…exactly. It’s just…” Her cheeks flushed and her eyes drifted away from his as if she felt suddenly shy. Hart waited. She sighed another heavy sigh. “It’s just...I’m a midwife. I _know_ what’s expected of a wife. Of the marital obligations of a Lady.” Hart felt himself growing hot under the collar and an accompanying warm excitement rising. The word ‘obligation’ struck him oddly, though, so he schooled his face as best he could. Rena continued, her eyes now seeking his, “But…I didn’t expect them to get so _inquisitive_ about it.” 

Hart sputtered, “What in the Seven Hells did they ask you? We haven’t…”

“No. We haven’t,” she answered significantly, “And they wanted to know _that_. But they also wanted to know about my flowering. How often it happens. How long it lasts. What signs accompany it. I wasn’t expecting to be interrogated.” 

The flush of sudden embarrassment dissipated as quickly as it had risen in Hart’s cheeks. This was…not a topic he’d ever had cause to consider. He groped randomly at the first thought that came into his mind.

“I…I don’t…why would they need to know? Wait…how often _does_ it happen?” 

With extreme matter-of-factness Rena replied, “Happens every moon, for three or four days or so, regular as the sunrise.”

“It does?” Hart had never thought about it. He’d understood that a girl wasn’t ready to be a wife until she flowered, but that was all it had seemed necessary to comprehend. Now, he found himself wondering if perhaps he should have asked more questions. And what she’d said about there being signs…?

“Of course!” Rena’s lovely amber eyes were laughing at him now, and her nose wrinkled in amusement as she exclaimed, “You know it’s not _actually_ a flower at all, right? It’s messy and uncomfortable—parts of me get swollen and sore—and it’s generally a bloody inconvenience.”

As it happened, he _hadn’t_ been aware of that second part, but feeling indignant at her barely repressed mirth he’d replied tersely, “Obviously. Of course.” He paused, then added bluntly, “I still don’t see why _they’d_ need to know… _any_ of that.”

Rena’s eyes widened and breathing out an incredulous chuckle, enlightened him, “Because of _why_ it happens, you adorable idiot! _They_ want to be sure that I can make children _for you_!”

A sudden surge of indignant anger pulsed through his veins. He rose from his seat, affronted and glowering. Seeing her laughing eyes cloud with uncertainty at his sudden mood-shift he realized—in mounting alarm—that she thought he was angry with her. He turned to her, beseechingly, “Rena! That’s not your job! You _know_ that right? Making children for me? I mean…,” seeing complete confusion spread across her face, he’d tried to corral his thoughts—to explain what he really meant, “I _do_ think I’d like to have children. A family. With _you_. But only if you do too.”

Rena’s expression had sobered at once. She’d stood, threading their fingers together. Bringing first one hand and then the other to her mouth, she brushed their entwined knuckles across her lips, gazing up at him from under her eyelashes, never taking her eyes from his. “I wouldn’t have agreed to wed you if I didn’t want to make a family with you…to have your children,” she’d said softly, her eyes searching his, “I thought that was understood.” 

He’d swallowed, looking away from her, all at once feeling very bashful. “Even still, my lady, you have a choice. I want you for your company, your companionship, and who you are—not for what you might give me.” She’d reached up and pulled him down to her then, kissing him gently, her lips moving so tenderly upon his own. 

As they parted, a thought occurred to her, he’d seen it land behind her slowly opening eyes, because they’d widened slightly as she fell back on her heels. She queried, “Does this have something to do with your mother?” He’d not told Rena everything—only slightly more than most people knew—and nothing regarding her true identity. He’d wanted to be loved for himself—not for his names, titles and allegiances. Here in the North, he’d known his status as a southern lordling—and a legitimized one at that—made him less attractive in certain circles. Were it widely known that he was a Stark—bastard-born or not—however… 

Hart bobbed his head in confirmation and her hand came up, cupping his clenched jaw as she smoothed her thumb along his cheek. “Just because you make a child doesn’t mean you want a child,” he muttered around the lump that had formed in his throat.

“I’d want _yours_ ,” Rena stressed, her voice low and steady, “She evidently wanted your father’s because you’re here. You know there are ways..?”

He’d nodded. “Before I left the Stormlands, Father made certain I knew about _that_. Brought me to Maester Ormund and told him to tell me. Showed me what moon tea looked like. Smelled like. Even tasted like.” Hart grimaced at the memory. “When Maester Ormund was done talking, Da dismissed him, handed me a pouch of the stuff, and told me that one of the most important things when you lie with a girl is that her life is her own afterwards—that she can still be herself. Said that he happened to think that love made a big difference too, but that was my own call to make.”

“And you took that to mean…”

“That she couldn’t be herself and have me.”

Rena’s lips had pursed and her eyes narrowed in thought. “Maybe…” she said pensively, “But maybe his real message for you was in his second piece of advice.”  
Hart’s darkened brow lifted, silently questioning.

“You said that your father said, ‘love makes a big difference.’ You’ve told me your father’s story. He wasn’t born of love. He likely wouldn’t know, but his own mother may not have had the ability—the luxury—of choice with him. She may have cared for him—loved him, even—but he likely felt that. Especially once she was gone and he had to fend for himself. But then, knowing that about him, your mother came offering you. You’ve had someone who chose you, wanted you, and was capable of loving you. Out of love, she gave him you. Out of his love for her, was born his love for you. You and I… _we love_ … your happiness makes me happier. What you’ve just said—offered to me privately as terms in our marriage—shows that you love me the same way.”

Hart could feel his chest hammering with the effect of her words and he gazed hungrily into her eyes for several long moments in silence before grasping her neck and pulling her lips to his once more. 

When at last they’d come up for air, she’d woven her arm into his and, walking together, mused, “I suppose there wasn’t much need for you to know much about flowering until now. You and your father living all those years without any women of your House. Perhaps it’s a good thing they decided to interrogate me today. It made us talk about something important that we hadn’t thought to discuss.”

Hart had looked sideways at her, thoroughly enchanted. She was right. She continued, “It’s not something women tend to talk openly about around men anyway. But,” she added, a saucy smile tugging at the corner of her beautiful lips, “ _You’re_ going to be sharing my bed, my lord.”

“I am?” putting on a mock-grump he added, “Nobody told me! What if you kick? Or snore?”

Rena hip-checked him, teasingly, “Oh, don’t you want to?”

“I do,” he said firmly, grasping her fingers and twirling her away and back to him as if they were dancing. As he tugged her back into the circle of his arms giggling breathlessly, Hart’s arm came around her back and pulled her against him, his gaze fastening on her lips. Her eyes darted up and down between his grey eyes and his mouth. Hart folded his lips inward, his tongue licking them in anticipation. Rena breathed, “I can’t wait to be your wife, Hart Baratheon.”

They’d spent another hour in the godswood, lost in each other. 

The laughter of the other lads brought him out of his reverie. 

Despite its relative closeness, in the nearly three years he’d lived at Winterfell, he’d yet to see The Wall. It was the one thing left that he needed to do before returning south. As Winterfell, his bride, and her family prepared for the wedding, and his father and the Queen closeted themselves in final negotiations, it seemed like precisely the right time to take the idle lads away on one final adventure. Rawly was more than game—The Wall had loomed large in the stories Gendry had told them both as boys and from nearly the moment he rode through Winterfell’s gates he’d been asking to ride farther—to take a piss off the edge of the world. Gendry’d laughed when he’d heard Rawly say that, “You know it’s not the edge of the world, right, lad? It’s leagues of frozen wilderness, but the world doesn’t end at The Wall.”

It clawed into the sky before them now—unbroken and vast—obliterating the horizon. Rawly reined-up beside him with a gasp. The entire procession paused; the Northerners grinning at one another across the awed expressions on the southron boys’ faces. 

“Seen now’t like it, I ‘spect,” one of them observed, “Take’t in, lads. Lookin’s free.”

A day later, Hart stood with Rawly at the top of the Wall, gazing out beyond into the wilds. The place where The Others came down from. Where his father had run hard and harder trying to get back and enlist the Dragon Queen’s help to save Lord Snow from the wights. 

A horn sounded. His stomach flipped.

Just once.

Riders.

Rawly’s arm pointed, drawing his attention to where he could see two riders, making their way towards the Wall. One of the Nightswatch handed him a spyglass. One of the riders was a man, bearded and heavily clad in furs. The other appeared to be a woman; she had dark-brown hair that she wore half-up. Neither rode quickly. They were plainly travellers as they didn’t appear to be carrying anything with them to trade. 

As they came closer, Hart heard one of the Black Cloaks curse, “The Others take me if that’s not Jon Snow! See his white wolf skirting alongside him?” An excited murmur strung itself along the top of The Wall as the information was relayed along the line. 

“He’s the one came to Storm’s End years ago, isn’t he?” Rawly asked. 

“That’s right,” Hart affirmed, raising the glass to look again at the riders. 

“Been years since he come south to Castle Black,” observed a Watchman, “Wonder what he’s here for?”

“Who’s that with ‘im?” asked another Brother. 

“Maybe ee’s got a wildling bride?” yet another joked, “Best some o’ you lads tell ‘er ‘is ‘istory wi’ women. Like as ee’d stick a dagger inner in place o’ somethin’ else.” This remark prompted a series of bawdy guffaws to echo down the ramparts. Some of the women of the Nightswatch did not appear to find this jest amusing and exchanged beleaguered glances.

Hart couldn’t really be sure, but she didn’t look much like the Free Folk he’d seen so far during his time in the North. Many had made their way to Winterfell or the other holds he’d visited. This woman was not clad head-to-toe in furs and skins. But neither did she wear the usual clothing of a Westerosi woman. She reminded him, somewhat vaguely, of Lady Yara when it came to her dress: practicality and maneuverability appeared to be the height of her objectives when it came to fashion. 

Returning to the foot of the Wall, Hart and Rawly made their way into the dining hall for cups of warm ale. The wind had been brisk at the top and they were happy to dispel the chill. It wasn’t long before a stamping of feet brought their attention to the door. Lord Snow was being welcomed. Hart rose from his seat and began making his way toward the man to give him greetings, but paused when he saw Lord Snow’s dark stare latch upon his own and freeze, his eyes and nostrils flaring, his stance suddenly tense. Lord Snow looked wildly over his shoulder, his arm moving as if to block someone from entering past him, but the woman he’d been riding with stepped around his flailing arm, looking up him with an oddly quirked eyebrow and perplexed expression as she removed her gloves. 

Hart sucked in a breath. All at once he was light-headed. He couldn’t feel his hands. Or his feet. The entire room withdrew itself from his senses. All his mind could process was the tiny woman.

The woman followed Lord Snow’s gaze across the room to where it was now affixed in dismay. At Hart. 

Her body and expression seemed to freeze solid. Then her eyes opened hugely: her grey-pewter eyes. Without intent, her hand gripped the hilt of a sword hanging from her belt. She didn’t blink and she didn’t move. A fierceness crossed her face that made Hart’s stomach flip as he watched her eyes travel over him—burning as they took in the length and colour of his hair, his eyes, the shape of his nose, lips, face, his height and build. 

It was all Hart could do to keep breathing. To remain upright. His heart was hammering against his chest harder than he’d ever seen his father pound steel against an anvil, making his head throb.

All in a moment, sound came rushing back to him as Rawly clasped his shoulder asking, “What, by all the gods, are you just standing here for? My mam'd have your hide for not showing Lord Snow his due. Get on with you!” He gave Hart a friendly shove towards the doorway. Feet stumbling underneath him, briefly, Hart felt like a dolt under her unwavering gaze, but he somehow managed to find himself mere steps from Lord Snow, and…his mother. For plainly, that’s who this woman was. 

“Lord Snow,” he heard himself saying. Hart had to pause to clear his throat before continuing, “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

Jon had barely recovered himself. He found himself enmeshed in a drama that the rest of the dining hall remained mercifully oblivious to. Arya kept looking at Hart as though he might suddenly spook and vanish—like one of the deer he was named for. Falling back on courtesy, Jon responded, rather guardedly, “Hart Baratheon, heir to Storm’s End, this is…my sister…Lady Arya Stark.”

Hart turned his whole body to Jon’s companion, “My Lady,” he said quietly, bowing, the epitome of a gracious lord. Raising his eyes from the floor, he saw her cheeks flush and a sudden smile pull the corners of her mouth wide. 

“Don’t call me that,” she replied, reflexively. It was like looking back in time at the boy she’d known in the wagon train north—destined for this precise location. The same shaggy black hair. The same broad shoulders, the same solidity, the same height. The same guarded gaze…but not. Because _his_ blue eyes weren’t the ones she couldn’t stop gawking at: instead, they were grey as her own. Arya was surprised to find that her fingers itched to reach out for him—the same way she’d instinctively brushed a hand over her belly in response to his movements sixteen years before. Instead, she transferred the impulse into reinforcing the grip she already had firmly around Needle’s hilt.

“What should I call you, then?” the lad asked softly. She noticed his jaw clench with repressed tension. Like Gendry’s did. 

“Arya,” she said firmly, then added apologetically, “Sorry. That was rude of me. It’s alright. You can call me ‘my lady’ or ‘Arya’, or…whatever you want, really. This is all…I’m a bit stunned,” she confessed. 

“No more than I, my…Arya.” He’d never said her name. Not aloud. Not to anyone. Until now. Between Da and himself she’d always been ‘mum.’ Between himself and the queen, ‘your sister.’ But now she was standing here in front of him and he couldn’t very well talk around her anymore. She was an actual person. And ‘mum’ _certainly_ wasn’t an option.

Jon had swept all the others—Rawly included—to the far end of the dining hall where he was holding their attention by means of some tale, all the while periodically casting uneasy glances back at his sister and her son. 

Arya placed a hand on Hart’s forearm and his eyebrows nearly shot to his hairline at her touch. “Would you…I don’t have any right to ask anything of you. But it’s not fair to you that we do this here. With so many others. Will you come?” She gestured with her chin to the doorway. The boy nodded slowly, looking slightly befuddled, his mouth agape. Arya’s stomach felt as if it had suddenly descended to her knees—that was _just like him_ too. 

Outdoors, she strode purposefully through the main gates and turned abruptly away from the King’s Road into the shelter of the small wood nearby. Hart trailed along behind her, his mind racing yet curiously blank. 

“I don’t know what faith you practice,” she called back over her shoulder, “if any. And I know this isn’t a godswood. But the closest one of those is on the other side of The Wall and I grew up with one and…,” she was babbling. Arya Stark didn’t babble. She closed her mouth abruptly. 

“Father replanted the one Lord Stannis destroyed at Storm’s End,” Hart relayed. Out here, alone with her, he felt strangely calm, “We have a sept too. We honour the Old Gods and the New.” 

Arya turned toward him. Blowing out a long-held breath, she demanded, “ _What_ in the name of All Of Them, then, are you doing _here_? At The Wall? In the North? And _where, in all seven **bloody** hells,_ is your father?”

Hart studied her. Her feet were planted solidly, shoulder-width apart, holding her hands clasped behind her. She was shorter than the Queen—and Rena. If he stood directly in front of her, the crown of her head would barely come to the top of his chest; he was of-a-height with his father now. He couldn’t help wondering how they’d managed…well… _things._ She was tiny. The myth of her loomed so large in his imagination that the reality of her was…disconcerting. Her eyes bore into him; she was waiting on his answer.

He cleared his throat, “I’ve been fostering with Queen Sansa at Winterfell for the past three years. Part of my education. I’m to be wed from there in little more than two weeks. Da’s there now, settling things. Wanted to see The Wall before it was time to leave. Share it with my friends.”

Arya’s grey eyes were saucers. “Who’s instigated it? My sister? You’re not old enough to…”

“Wed? I am,” he declared, settling his shoulders, firming his stance and cocking his chin, “I instigated it. Rena’s the best thing’s ever happened to me. I love her. And it’ll be…”

“Your nameday,” she finished, calculating, her voice abruptly resigned, “Your sixteenth. I was there, you know. I remember. Everything.” The look on his face was heart-shatteringly familiar: he bore himself with the same conscious but newfound confidence that Gendry’d put on the night he’d asked her to be his lady.

Hart wasn’t sure what to say. They watched each other silently across the glade. After a time, Arya’s mouth acquired a wry slant, “Come. I’ve no right to think I know you. I don’t. You’re just… _so like him._ ” 

“You talked to Da blunt and critical as you’re talking to me? It’s a wonder I was ever born.”

Surprised laughter bubbled out of Arya, astonishing them both. Hart looked at her askance. He was rapidly realizing that any story he’d heard couldn’t match the actuality of her. He didn’t know _her_ either.

“You call him Da?” she asked, smiling now and settling herself on the stump of a tree. She gestured for him to make himself comfortable as well. Picking his way closer, Hart nodded at her in response, settling himself on a fallen limb nearby. “You being born was a wonder, for what it’s worth to you to know it,” she continued contemplatively, “It was a wonder Gendry and I found each other at Winterfell after all those years apart. It was a wonder we didn’t die ending the Night King. It was a wonder we didn’t die at King’s Landing trying to secure vengeance on Cersei. It was a wonder we didn’t die in the flames the Dragon Queen bathed the city in. It was a wonder we made a lasting peace in Westeros at all—stopping the war so we needn’t spend moon after moon defending Jon or Sansa or Bran until we couldn’t anymore and someone else bested us.” 

When she’d first said ‘we’ Hart thought she’d meant herself and Da. But as she’d continued speaking, he’d realized she was naming feats and moments his father hadn’t been present for. She meant another we: herself _and him._ The thought of himself—a helpless babe—accompanying and somehow battling _alongside_ her through the tempests she’d cited sent a thrill down his spine.

Arya paused, appraising her son with avid interest. His earlier retort had startled her, ringing as it did with the scorn that often imbued her own words. _That_ couldn’t have been pleasant for Gendry all these years, she thought to herself. Or maybe it had. If he still loved her as he’d claimed to… As she still… A chill shivered its way across her shoulders. 

The boy’s full attention was on her. She could see him analyzing and evaluating everything. With a hint of defiance, she concluded, “You were the wonder that bound the pieces of myself together long enough for you to be born and the wonder that made your stupidly steadfast father risk everything he’d earned to arrive in time to help me do it.” She shook her head and looked away.

Hart’s throat was bone-dry. He swallowed futilely, and then croaked, “And then you left.”

Arya’s eyes lanced his again. “Yes. I left.”

“Why?” 

The question she’d dreaded being asked most for these many, many years hung in the air between them. The birds had gone silent in the wood as if they too were listening. The leaves didn’t rustle. All was still.

At long last, Arya countered, tentatively, “Gendry didn’t say?”

“He did,” Hart avowed, “What he understood to be the reason, in any case. Said you’d come back someday when you’d learned what you needed to be here. But I’d like to hear your version.”

Incredulity overtook Arya’s features. “He…! Gods! He’s such a…!” Seeing Hart’s eyebrow cock itself in an exact mirror of her own silenced her. She inhaled and exhaled deeply before continuing more measuredly, “He’s _not_ wrong. Damn his eyes! But he always simplified everything. Had too much stubborn faith in…”

“You? Was he wrong to have it?”

“I..,” Arya began, stopped, swallowed, bit her lip, continued, “I don’t know how much time we’ll have to talk now before someone comes to find either of us, and you deserve to know whatever you wish to hear from me. To ask as many questions as you want. Or none at all. I expect it will hurt: probably both of us. But all wounds hurt in the healing.”

Hart’s brow lowered and she watched him mull over her words. He rose and spoke, “I came North because I wanted to know more about who I am and where I came from. I didn’t expect… _you_. More to the point, _Da_ isn’t expecting you. What _can_ we expect from you? The very least you owe either of us is knowing. You were riding south with Lord Snow. Where were you bound?”

“Winterfell,” she answered swiftly. The implications of Hart’s words shot adrenaline through her bloodstream. He’d asked what they could expect from her. What could _she_ expect from _them_? Was Gendry furious with her? Had he made a family with someone else since Jon had last seen him? There was so much she needed to know. “We were riding to Sansa. I landed in Westeros less than a moon ago. I’ve not been back since…” she gestured toward him, silently implying _you._ “I didn’t set out to be gone so long, but it would be a lie to say that I intended to return when I left.”

“Were you going to tell us? That you were back?” 

“Wanted to gauge how things stood. Sixteen years is…” she trailed off guiltily.

“…A long time,” Hart finished for her, emphatically.

“Is he well? Your father, I mean,” Arya asked. The insipidness of the question made her squirm inside. 

“Do you care or are you performing courtesies?” Hart’s tone was bullish.

Suddenly she was directly in front of him, simmering with repressed emotion. For such a small person she had an overwhelming presence when her temper took hold. Hart took an inadvertent step back but she pressed on, small, firm hands clapping themselves to the sides of his head, pinching his ear-lobes between her fingers, forcing his eyes to meet hers. “I wouldn’t be alive—much less _here_ —if I didn’t care,” her voice was tight. 

Hart shook his head to free himself with an incredulous snort, but held his ground. One hand settled itself unconsciously on the hilt of his sword as he admonished her, “When you say that you’d better mean it. He’s waited all my life, longing for you. Watching for your ship from the ramparts at night when there’s a storm. Taking himself to the forge when he’s so hurt and angry that he has to hit something or go mad. He thinks I don’t know that’s why but _I know._ He’s wanted you beside him all these years—been faithful to you—and whatever you think you owe me is wind compared to what you owe him! He’d talk to me about you as if you’d walk in the door at any moment and you’d both just pick up where you left off. Made me feel as if I did have two parents my whole childhood. You’ve been a fascinating story I’ve been told all my life. And that’s enough, really, for me. I’m a man grown. I can live with nothing more than that. But he can’t. If you come into his world and go out again…” the sudden vehemence in Hart’s voice hit her like a war-hammer, “I won’t let you break him. I’d rather know nothing more at all than have you break him.” Hart turned and marched determinedly out of the woods, spooking crows from the branches. 

Struck as if by lightning at the intensity of this speech, Arya made no move to follow. He can’t know all that for certain. The bit about Gendry being faithful…he was just a boy. He couldn’t possibly know that for certain. By his own admission he’d been away from his father for nearly three years. Anything could have happened once he was on his own. Maybe it was time without the boy that he’d needed in order to enable him to move on. But the words Gendry’d spoken so fervently sixteen years before came hurtling back to her:

_“One, Arya. There’s only ever been one. You.”_

When Jon found her, more than an hour later, she was still sitting in the glade her eyes fixed in the distance staring at nothing. He settled himself wordlessly on the log Hart had perched upon earlier. Elbows on his knees, he leaned forward, looking up at her from under his hair, interested but silent. 

“He doesn’t trust me with Gendry.”

Jon snorted, “Can you blame him? They’re close. He loves him.”

“No.”

“Can you _be_ trusted with him?”

Arya gave him the dirtiest scowl he’d ever seen. Jon chuckled at her, raising his palms placatingly, “Just seems like you two have some history that begs the question.”

Arya dropped her hand into the underbrush beside her and launched a twig at him. Jon ducked; it snarled itself in his hair. Reaching up a hand, he set about untangling it. 

She nodded, slowly. “I’m here. I’m going to be here. I need to be here.”

“What if you need to not be here again?”

“There’s nowhere I can go that they don’t follow. I find them. I seek them out. In spite of myself. Every damn time.”

Jon nodded, thoughtfully, “But, Arya…this isn’t like warging. You’re you and they’re them. Everything is so…instinctual…people are more complex than wolves.”

“Maybe that’s the problem,” she admitted, “We keep thinking we are when we’re not.”

~

Hart stalked into his quarters in Castle Black and thumped his head back against the door. Rawly lifted his head up, peering at him with an odd look on his face from the bunk in which he’d been sprawled. 

“What’s up? One minute you were greeting Lord Snow and the next you’d disappeared. Where’d you go?”

Hart sighed, rubbed a hand over his face, and sighed again. Without another word he unlaced his boots, pulled them off, and rolled into his own bunk. Turning his back to the room, he curled himself up into his thoughts. 

~

_Gendry,_

_Found your son in residence at Castle Black. Didn’t know he’d been fostering with Sansa. Bran was right. My sister landed at Hardhome less than a moon ago. We were making for Winterfell, but will linger here for a few days…perhaps longer: depends on Arya._

_\- Jon_

~ 

_Sansa,_

_How is it you hold some things close while others flow like water through a sieve? How do you decide which to share and which to bury? Arya’s back. She’s with me._

_\- Jon_

~

_Jon,_

_You’ve secrets too…brother. Winterfell is bursting—we host the wedding of Lord Baratheon’s son to the Tallhart girl in a fortnight. You are both, always, welcome. I will receive you whenever you arrive._

_\- Sansa_

~

> _Free, open and clear; starlight glittering in the frost-covered grass. The sharp tang of pine and cold. Your new friend—the elder—on his haunches in the ice-cavern’s mouth. His man beside him. You think warmly of your boy._
> 
> _A howl in the distance. Ears twitch. Hackles raise. The elder raises his muzzle and replies: full-throated and triumphant. You swing your head to the forest as a response echoes. A sudden snap of jaws—playful—at your tail makes you scramble. Your elder wants you to follow. You do. Tearing after him—now dashing through the crunching snow across the open field toward the trees. Exuberance. Freedom._
> 
> _Loping into the trees. The white wolf slows. Snout wrinkles. A new scent._
> 
> _Familiar.  
>  Long forgotten, but familiar. _
> 
> _A plaintive, whining whimper leaves your throat. Ears twitch. Steps in the snow._
> 
> _A grey wolf: snout lowered, in the shadows, eyes you unwaveringly._
> 
> _**Interloper!** _
> 
> _You whine, again, uncertain. Mounting panic. The elder nudges you toward the grey. You balk. The grey’s neck stretches out, nosing. She snorts; issues a low-pitched, calming rumble. You extend your neck, sniffing tentatively, trepidatiously, back. Frenzied yearning swells._
> 
> _Recognition._
> 
> _Careening into the grey wolf, you knock her off-balance. She rights herself, tongue lapping at your shoulders, ears, the space between. Nipping and nosing. A clamor of paws. A welcoming game of sorts._
> 
> _Nuzzling._
> 
> _Engulfed by warmth and peace._

~

Riding out beyond the Wall Hart inhaled a deep breath and let his mount have his head. He’d never been anywhere ungoverned before: without laws outside those of common understanding—and even those unbinding and arbitrary. The rushing of the wind against his face was what he needed. Rawly, Cregan and some of the others galloped past him, racing and whooping with delight. Planning this trip, he’d wanted to be able to say he’d set foot North of the Wall in his last days of youthful freedom. But this morning he sought the unfettered air for other reasons. Sleep had been fitful, and interrupted by dreams. At one point he’d awoken with tears flowing freely down his cheeks, bursting with so much emotion he’d choked audibly, waking. Discomfited, his heart a twisted skein of yearning in his chest, he scrubbed a hand over his face, listening to make certain he hadn’t awoken any of the other lads. Further sleep eluded him, and he’d found himself staring at the stone wall beside his bunk, trying his hardest not to think about Arya Stark. Whatever that dream had been, he was almost certain it had been prompted by her sudden appearance. 

As he approached the tree-line, a sharp whistle caught his attention. Another rider was coming up from behind, gesturing off to the right: Jon Snow. Hart hadn’t yet spoken to him and it appeared the man wanted his company. He looked back surreptitiously, checking to ensure that there were no other riders—that _she_ hadn’t come out from the Wall too. He wasn’t ready for more of _her_. Hoped desperately that he’d figure out what to do before their paths crossed again. He whistled his own signal to his mates and when Cregan flailed his arm in acknowledgement, he carried on, trailing in Snow’s wake. 

The horses slowed, and as they rode amid the hiss and whisper of the trees, Lord Snow reined-in, offering gruffly, “I’m sorry. We didn’t know you’d be here. Didn’t have any idea you’d come North.”

Hart shrugged, grudgingly as he dismounted. Words seemed unnecessary. Snow lived with the Free Folk. The North was his childhood home. If anyone was an anomaly here, it was Hart, himself. 

“I mean it, lad,” Jon insisted, dismounting too, “If I’d known you were here—or even at Winterfell—I’d have sent word first. Not just stumbled into you blind. Same’s I’ve sent word to your father.”

Hart’s eyes were fear-filled daggers launched in Jon’s direction as he exclaimed, horror-struck, “You did _what_?”

Snow’s eyes widened at Hart’s tone, but his reply was level, “Sent a raven to your father at Winterfell yesterday along with the one we’d intended to send to Sansa.” 

Hart’s hands clutched at his head, yanking his shaggy hair back from his forehead, a scowl marring his features. He cursed, “Seven Hells! Now he’ll know she’s here!”

Jon merely looked at him, patting his own horse’s neck, “Aye,” he said at last, his eyes narrowed, watching Hart’s expression carefully, “You thought to keep that from him?”

Hart heaved a giant sigh. “I know she’s your sister…”

“Mmhmm,” Jon made an encouraging, but noncommittal, noise. 

“You and my Da are friends, right?”

Jon nodded. “Aye,” he stated firmly.

“What would you to _your friend_ —leaving aside all the rest—if you knew the person most likely to hurt him could do it again?” 

Ah. Jon understood. This was the boy’s lack of experience talking. Not to mention the freshly-rocked foundation upon which he’d built his sense of self. As it happened, he did know— _intimately_ —what it was like to wrestle with this question. He cleared his throat. Did he _want_ to pass this conundrum on?

“You’ve nothing to teach me, boy, about mitigating hurt and evaluating risk. I slipped a hidden dagger between the ribs of a woman I loved because she’d turned, in the blink of an eye, not on the people who deserved it, but on the very people we’d fought the Others to save. Duty is the death of love. But before that—before any of that—I’d learned the opposite. Another woman showed me _‘Love is the death of duty.’_ Coulds and supposed-tos and shoulds give way in the face of it. You’re only just beginning to discover that with your lady, I’d wager, and no one’s asked you to exchange one for the other. Life’s not necessitated that of you. It’s allowing you both: love and duty wrapped together like a sword in a scabbard. It hasn’t granted that privilege for me, for Arya, or for your father. Instead it’s forced choices on us: one for the other, one in spite of the other, one because of the other. I hope…I pray to all the gods there’ve ever been or ever will be that you’ll never have to draw that sword, and cast away that scabbard so it doesn’t trip you up as you wield. Those of us who have would do anything to resheathe and walk away.”

Hart had been glaring at him with narrowed eyes, but Jon could tell he was listening. Compassion rippled briefly across his features followed by a crushing distress. Ruminating, the lad bit his lower lip before settling his brow and cocking his chin defiantly. Jon suppressed a smile: those habits were Arya’s. Much as the boy might want to disavow her, their connection was written in his blood and the involuntary contractions of his facial muscles. He resumed, “You’ve been vicariously imbibing other people’s Aryas all these years. Your father’s. Sansa’s. The North’s…History’s…even mine. Sampling her briefly, yourself, you’ve found her…unpalatable. She doesn’t match what you imagined. But you’ve not acquired a taste for her yet. She’s…bittersweet,” he concluded fondly, the image of an untamed, wild-haired little girl wearing a flower crown glowering over something Sansa’d said, her face transforming into a ray of sunshine at the sight of him, flickering in the back of his mind.

A snuffling, crunching sound broke the ensuing silence. Hart stiffened visibly and then relaxed as Hero capered out of the trees. “How’d you get out here, pal? You follow us?” He knelt, opening his arms to his pet and scratching heartily into Hero’s ears and ruff. Hero burrowed into him happily, licking his chin. Glancing up, Hart saw Ghost appear alongside Jon. Beyond them, a large shadow moved under the pines. Hart’s eyes widened and his mouth dropped open. Another direwolf. He sucked in a breath. The beast was of-a-size with Jon’s pet. Sliding his eyes down he sussed for reactions: neither wolf appeared at all wary. “My lord,” he said, his voice level but grave. He flicked his eyes over Jon’s shoulder.

Jon felt an odd fulfillment as he turned. Ghost had whined at him unceasingly in the night and only settled when he’d thought to walk the tunnel under the Wall. Hero accompanying them was as unintended as Nymeria’s sudden appearance. The instincts of these particular animals were…uncanny…but they no longer surprised him. She’d balked at coming with them the day before as they’d exited the woods and although Arya had initially tried coaxing her, she’d eventually given in. “She’s been wild far longer than she was ever with me and she only knew loss in the south. Can’t blame her for wanting to stay where she’s free and comfortable,” Arya’d remarked regretfully. Seeing her appear again, now, Jon wondered if perhaps Nymeria’d sensed what lay in wait for them on the south side of the Wall. 

Hero bounded toward the grey wolf and Hart let out a strangled cry of protest. Jon waved a hand, hushing him, “Leave be. He’s in no danger. That’s my sister’s direwolf.”

“Nymeria?!” Hart exclaimed, jaw dropping open in astonishment.

Watching Hero frolic with the elder direwolf, Hart could feel the knotted yearning of his dream catch at his chest and release: his eyes pricked and a boulder obstructed his windpipe. Not wanting Jon to think him soft, Hart forcefully shook his head and tried to clear his throat, his eyes fixed on the wolves. A solid hand clapped itself onto his shoulder and squeezed. He turned then, finding that Jon’s eyes were similarly damp, his lips pressed together in a slight, quivering smile. The older man gripped his shoulder again, wordlessly lending his support, his other hand knuckling the bridge of his nose as if trying to pinch away the emotions welling there. 

“Da always said it was her direwolf brought Hero. This looks like…” he choked.

“…It was,” Jon concluded. 

They watched the reunited mother and child, Ghost occasionally nosing his way into the party and then scampering off again. The shadows lengthened, and eventually shouts could be heard beyond the trees. The others were looking for them. It was time to mount up and return. This time Nymeria and Hero loped along in tandem at Hart’s side. “If _they_ can manage it…,” Hart chewed on the unfinished thought. 

~

Arya always woke up early, but that morning she was more eager to rise than at any point she could remember in her adult life. She’d come to a decision. She dressed and made her way to the training yard where the boy—her _son_ —worked diligently at his morning practice. She’d discovered him, the first morning she’d risen at Castle Black, but chose not to intrude, secreting herself in the shadows to watch instead. Each successive day she rose a little earlier, but he always seemed to get there before her, and was well into his morning routine by the time she arrived. She wondered, idly, if this was an intangible _something_ he’d inherited from her.

They hadn’t spoken again since that first day and she’d resolved that she could leave things no longer. His party would be making the return journey to Winterfell in a day or two at most. She didn’t have all the time in the world to wait for him to make the next move. She’d have to make it. Like she’d had to with his father. The irony brought a self-deprecating twist to her lips. 

She watched his form maneuver with critical eyes, but she hadn’t yet found his skill lacking. Of course, there were mornings where she could tell that he’d strained a muscle, or that he was more eager for breakfast than practice. All things considered, he was a remarkable swordsman, she allowed, something inside her swelling with what must be pride, marveling at his strength, speed and inborn talent. 

This morning, however, she stepped from the shadows and noticed that Hero’s ears perked up as she emerged from the archway. Nymeria trotted past her, heading straight for the younger wolf. Arya watched them touch noses and repressed a sigh. She wished it was as easy for people as it was for wolves. People always needed words. Words so often got in the way. 

Hart’s movements began to slow and then came to a halt as she began her own warm-up. He nodded to her coolly. He’d known she was watching. Had known for days. “I thought,” she began, stretching each of her arms across her chest and then swinging them full-circle to limber herself up, “I might show you some of my waterdance…if you’re interested?” Her voice was steady and her face mostly indifferent, but one eyebrow rose as if issuing him a challenge.

An interested spark kindled in the boy’s grey eyes, “Da spoke of your waterdancing. Made me curious. He was going to put word out to find me a Braavosi master had I not come north,” he paused, adding somewhat reticently and a little torn, “I _would_ like to learn.”

Arya’s smile lit her up like the rising sun, “No time like the present.” She tossed him a practice sword which he caught—left handed—as he moved to return his larger broadsword to the weapons rack. The pair slowly circled one another and she instructed him, correcting his form and explaining, as Syrio had done for her. They were both so engrossed in the training that neither noticed that they’d acquired an audience. Rawly and Jon Snow had emerged onto one of the covered walkways that surrounded the tilt-yard. 

Watching them spar, Jon couldn’t help noting that it was as if he were watching Arya practice in front of a looking-glass: the smoothness of her gestures echoed precisely by Hart. Like two reeds bending together in the breeze. Their secret wouldn’t keep. Not here in the North. Not with them both together. 

Confirming his thoughts, the lad beside him inhaled sharply and then glanced at him sidelong. “Yes, boy?” he muttered. 

“She’s not!…She can’t be?….Is she…?” Rawly’s face was awash in disbelieving, overzealous glee. 

Jon didn’t reply. He turned and stalked away. He hadn’t been certain whether he should give voice to his concerns, but Hart’s friend had just articulated them, quite plainly. He’d need to speak about that to Arya. 

~

“She’s…! She _is_ , isn’t she?” Rawly demanded the moment he returned to their room to wash-up before breakfast. 

“Who’s what?” Hart replied, his gut plummeting. 

Rawly went toe to toe with him. “Your mam,” he hissed, his finger poking Hart in the chest to punctuate his words. 

Hart remained silent.

Rawly hooted. “Knew it. Lord Snow wouldn’t confirm it either. Silence on two fronts means there’s truth in the telling.” 

“I’d rather you…not,” Hart responded, defeated. “I don’t know how to handle anything yet. I didn’t expect…”

“I’d guess you didn’t! The Hero of Winterfell! Bringer of the Dawn! Your bleedin’ mother.”

“Shut up.”

“But…!”

“I mean it, Rawly. Keep your voice down. Better yet, shut up. Forget. It’s no one’s business but mine.”

“Imagine the Queen of the North has some ideas ‘bout that.”

“If she does, that’s her business. Not mine. Certainly not yours. You’re my mate, but I mean it: I won’t be tweaked and twitted about this. Not ever.”

Rawly, suddenly sober, launched another offensive, “Rena know?”

Hart shook his head. “She will. But that’s another reason I’m asking. Please?”

Rawly studied him, silent for a few moments, then reached out and pulled him, one-armed into a giant embrace. Pounding him on the back he murmured, “You don’t have to handle shit alone. You know that, right?”

“I’m a lord. Sometimes I have to.”

“I’ve been on your small-small-council your whole damn life, little brother. Don’t cut me out now.”

With a wry smile, Hart allowed, “Keep your fool mouth shut and I won’t have to.”

Rawly mimed stitching his lips together. Hart chuckled. They went down for breakfast arms wound around one another’s shoulders. 

~

She’d bested him—twice—but he didn’t mind. Their morning bouts had cleared the unsettled fog from his head. She’d taught him a new trick and some stretches that he knew would make him better, respond faster. It was hard not to be a little in awe of her. She’d come up under his arm at one point and switched hands so quickly it was as if she’d always been holding the blade there and he realized that she—like himself—could fight just as well with either hand. Then came the compounded shock that she was the reason he possessed that ability at all. She’d clapped him on the shoulder, grinned, and congratulated him when he yielded. Now, they were gazing out from the top of The Wall together in an awkwardly pleasant silence. 

“You’ve every right to look out for him. You’re a good son. I’m glad. He deserves that,” she murmured. 

“He’s a great father,” Hart replied quietly. 

“Knew he would be,” she’d replied, almost inaudibly; he’d nearly missed it. They stood in silence, again, for a time. 

Hart shuffled his feet. “Did…you...love him?” he asked, looking up from under his brows tentatively, gauging her response.

Heart racing, Arya swallowed, and embraced the impending storm her words would bring, “Yes.”

“You should tell him that. I think he’d appreciate knowing. I know—and this isn’t speculation—there’s never been anyone else for him.” 

Arya cast her eyes sideways at him: how could he possibly know that? Gazing out at the wilds beyond she pondered the mystery that remained her son. He was being gentle with her. Far less accusatory than their previous conversation. Of course, she allowed, he’d had some time to prepare himself this time. And he’d had that moment with the wolves. Jon had told her and she could see how affecting _he’d_ found it. 

She shifted to a more neutral topic, inquiring, “Your father ever tell you anything about out there?”

The lad nodded, “Told me all about winter coming. The White Walkers and the dragons, about Sandor Clegane, Thoros of Myr, Beric Dondarrion, and your brother and his wildling friends.” 

“You’d know more about their time together than I do.”

He looked back at her in surprise. “You never spoke with them about it?”

She shrugged, “More, recently, with Jon. Before it was just the bare bones. They went to capture a wight to take back to Cersei. They did. They both survived.”

“Do you…want…to know more?” Hart asked tentatively. She nodded, forcing herself not to turn away as her body felt like doing but to maintain the tentative thread of connection.

“Da always told me that he’d been nervous to meet Jon since he was your favourite brother and worrying how he’d failed you by not going to The Twins like you’d asked.” 

Arya’s eyebrows shot upwards. An interested, “Hmm,” hummed out of her. 

Hart nodded. “He’d intended to tell Jon all that the minute they met. Ser Davos had another identity in mind for him, but he’d already decided to be himself. But then he said that Jon looked at him the same way you did when you were feeling cheerful—which wasn’t often, he’d always add—and he knew that he had to fight for him as he hadn’t been able to fight for you. Couldn’t take the risk Jon would send him away if he knew how he’d failed you. He thought you were dead, then, my…Arya.”

“Gendry used to call me ‘milady’—teasing me. It was habit that made me reply to you as I did the other day,” she sounded pensive, “You just look so much like he did then.” Hart’s brow rose imperceptibly and a flash of insight lit his eyes. Shifting abruptly back to their conversation, she continued, “I thought he was likely dead then, too. I’d gone to Braavos. Hadn’t seen him since he’d been sold by the Brotherhood and carted away. Did he tell you about that?”

Hart nodded, “Seemed like Da was always being sold, back then.”

“Each one of us is always seconds away from being bartered or sold. Doesn’t matter if you’re highborn or lowborn, all it takes is circumstance and someone with enough strength to impose their will upon others. The best most people can hope for is that they’ve agency or skill enough to be able to set the terms of their own sale.”

Hart’s right eyebrow had quirked up at her in a manner she recognized from her own reflection. Her words had startled and intrigued him. “You don’t really believe that, do you?” he asked.

“I was brought up a little lady meant to be traded away to build alliances and consolidate power. I wasn’t very good at it. Hated everything about it, in truth. Hated being careful of my clothes and holding back everything that made me _me._ Instead, circumstances made me a penniless orphan boy, a cupbearer, a hostage, a street vendor, a blind girl, an assassin, a spy, a warrior, the Bringer of Dawn, a tavern wench, an explorer, an acolyte. I’ve lived lives never intended for Arya Stark under names, identities and conditions that were not always of my choosing. Choice is the most powerful thing in the world, Hart.”

“You didn’t choose me,” the boy said softly, his eyes full of challenge.

Arya didn’t flinch, “I did. Not in the way your father—and likely _you_ have wanted me to choose you. But you’re here and I chose that. Not because I _couldn’t_ have made another choice, but because I didn’t want to.” She watched Hart’s eyes narrow slightly. She plowed on, “You weren’t planned. You weren’t intended. Neither your father nor I predicted you. We both expected to die. But then we didn’t die. I kept right on expecting to. And I never did. And then I found out about you and I went to your father and asked him if he wanted you.”

“Because you didn’t.”

She shook her head, denying his words, “I gave him the chance to claim you and he did. But I went to him after I’d already decided. I was going to have you. I couldn’t…not.”   
Candid curiosity was etched all over Hart’s face, “Why not? I know there are ways…”

“Of course there are!” Arya interrupted him impatiently, “And any woman who claims that all possible options don’t run across her mind fleetingly—finding herself in the situation I was in then—would be lying! I’d already chosen to have you. Would have even if your father had made a different choice than he did. His choice made it so much easier for me, but I would have done it either way. You don’t owe me anything for making that choice. I’m not asking for that. But that’s life. We get to keep making choices, every single day.”

“Would you have kept me? If he hadn’t chosen as he did?”

Arya’s expression changed, “No,” she admitted, shaking her head slowly, “I’m not sure what I would have done with you—I wasn’t… _whole_ …enough then.” She looked at him regretfully, “The instant your father pulled you from between my legs and untethered us was the instant I had nothing left to fight for. I couldn’t see otherwise then, despite him telling me so. I was that…broken.” Silence stretched between them. Arya’s next words were a whisper that Hart had to strain to hear: _“The night is dark and full of terrors._ All I could see was night and cold and terror. The gods seemed to have destined me to it. I couldn’t bring you with me into _that_.” She shivered and after several beats and a decided shrug of her shoulders seemed to cast off the doom-cloud, “Perhaps you’d have been raised here in the North with Sansa—or beyond the wall with Jon. I can’t tell you because I never had to formulate that plan.”

Her abrupt shift from fervent anguished introspection to matter-of-fact speculation disconcerted him. “You were that certain of Da, then, that you knew you’d never have to? That you’d go to him before you’d go to your real family.”

“He’s pack. He _is_ my family. And you’re _his_.”

Hart didn’t know quite what to say to that.

“What’s that mean?” he asked, finally. She’d said it like it explained everything. 

Arya frowned at him. “What’s what mean?”

“You called him ‘pack’.”

Arya hummed for a moment. Slid a sideways glance at him and then answered with a question he wasn’t expecting. “How’d you come by your wolf?”

“Hero?” Hart’s tone was surprised, “Da brought him home for me when I was three. Sometimes I think nobody understands me as well as he does. Da always said that you sent him. Was that true?”

Arya took a shaky breath and said tentatively, “I have these…dreams? Where I’m not me but I also sort of am. I had one around that time where my pack died and I had this pup that I didn’t know how to care for…” she trailed off, her gaze searching his. “We’re connected, you see? Starks and wolves. There’s a reason for the sigil. There’s reason—no matter how strange—in everything. I think I _did_ send Nymeria and her pup to you.”

Hart felt taken-aback but the idea wasn’t so improbable…he found himself nodding sagely. “I have dreams like that sometimes too. Like I’m looking out of Hero’s eyes instead of my own?” 

Arya signaled her agreement with a curt chin-tilt, “Jon said the Free Folk call it ‘warging’. Guess that’s something you can inherit from the Starks. When my brothers and sister and I would rile each other, our father used to say: _‘When the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives.’_ A part of me always wants to be the lone wolf—needs to feel independent and unbound—but people find one another and rely on each other and fight to help you through. Sometimes they’re the family you’re born to and sometimes they’re not. Gendry’s pack.”

Hart pondered her explanation for a long time, turning the words over and over again in his mind. “If he hadn’t been…did…did you choose to have me _because_ he’s ‘pack’?”

Arya swallowed. Nodded. Peered up at him with eyes so full of feeling Hart gasped. Rena’d been right. 

_“Out of love, she gave him you.”_

What Arya Stark called ‘pack’ other people called family: bound fiercely with love. 

“I’ve decided to add someone to my pack,” Hart stated quietly, “I think…I think you should ride back to Winterfell with us and meet her. I think she’d like to know you. _I’d_ like her to know you.”

Arya met her son’s eyes gravely. 

“Will…Gendry…be alright with my coming? If you’re certain you want this, I can wait. Until after you’re wed. If you think…” 

Hart reached into his pocket and withdrew a scrap of parchment. Her words settled the matter: if she hadn’t voiced reservations, or he hadn’t seen that look in her eyes, he’d never have felt compelled to show her the letter. His eyes scanned it briefly before tearing it into two pieces. He stuck one back into his pocket but held out the other toward her. 

Arya examined the scrap of parchment. The writing was Gendry’s:

> _…it’s your choice and you’re free to make whatever one you want, mate. It’s your wedding. But know that as I’ll support whatever decision you make about your own relationship with her, you’ll have to support mine. If she wants me, I’m going. To Castle Black, Beyond The Wall, here at Winterfell, a poor Inn at a Crossroads, King’s Landing, Storm’s End, The Sapphire on Tarth, Braavos, or the end of the world: if she’ll have me, I’m hers to command. She’s always been milady._
> 
> _I asked her to stay and be my lady seventeen years ago. I got it wrong then. And I don’t need a Lady now. I never did. Just her. I think you understand better now than you would have before Rena._
> 
> _Whatever you choose, I love you, both._
> 
> _\- Da_

“That’s _his_ choice,” Hart said, his eyes searching hers. She understood the silent question in his eyes: _‘What’s yours?’_

Arya turned away. She could feel her eyes welling just as they had when she’d offered to be his family all those years ago and he hadn’t understood. The words clutched tightly in her hand confirmed all of her wildest hopes and dreamed-for possibilities: he _did_ understand and, moreover, she was _ready_ now. She walked to the edge of the wall, gazing south, far into the distance toward Winterfell, blinking back her feelings. Aglow, she turned back to Hart, “I made my choice on the other side of the world. _Fear cuts deeper than swords._ I let fear cut me. I thought I was being brave paring people away from me for their own good. But that was my fear talking. Everything got muddled. When I should have reached out, I backed off. When I should have let people in, I pushed them away. I thought I didn’t know who I was and I really, really, didn’t. It took me years to find myself again. To ache for life again instead of yearning after death. Years I’ll never make up for.” Her eyes glistened, almost silvery in the refraction of light off the iced Wall, “But I want to. I want you to know that I want to.” 

Hart nodded at her. “Then come,” he said.

“Home,” she replied.

~

**[Excerpt, unread by Arya, from Gendry’s Letter to Hart]**

_Hart,_

_Jon’s written. Why_ you _haven’t…_

_I hope you’ll give her a chance, mate. That’s—if she seems to want one. You’ll know if she does because she’ll keep turning up and then—suddenly—she’ll be in your face. She swirls in bravery like a cloak and seems full of resolve, but underneath all of it she’s uncertain._

_She’s not a healer like Rena—taking things gently and probing. She pushes at and through struggles—like they’re a fight. You’re not used to women like that. Not even the Queen of the North and her pirate queen have prepared you for the single-minded intensity of her. Push back when you need to. She can take it. You’re my son. She’ll expect some bullheadedness._

_You’ve got an idea in your head of mothering from Sella. She was as good a stand-in as I could give you but **she’s** different. Had to be. Wouldn’t have loved her as I do all these years if she’d been otherwise. _

_Being at Storm’s End without you these past years I’ve had time to think on and understand what I didn’t before. I took on all of this because I thought I needed it to deserve her. To be worthy of her. To be important enough to her and for her. Later, I worked so hard to maintain it and make it stable, secure, and prosper all these years for **you**. What I’ve realized is: I don’t want any of it for itself. For myself. Never have. Don’t enjoy it. I hold everything there in trust for you. It’s yours. As soon as you want it. I only ever wanted it to keep you—and her. _

_Jon said they were headed for Winterfell. He’s indicated a willingness to stay on at Castle Black if you’re uncertain. So…[cont’d]_


	8. Wending Their Way

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anxiously, Gendry awaits Hart's return to Winterfell.  
> As they travel, Hart and Arya continue getting to know one another.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I could not be more blown-away by the reception this story continues to receive. Deepest gratitude to you all!

#### Winterfell

Jon’s raven arrived from Castle Black with the dusk. Maester Wolkan delivered it himself as Gendry left the Great Hall after the evening meal. It was unexpected. He chose not to open it until he’d returned to the guest quarters Sansa had assigned to him. That proved wise. Stupefied, he’d sat staring unseeingly into the unlit hearth. Hours later, sleepless, he found himself pacing the walls he’d once battled to defend.

His thoughts were a mire: tangential ramblings congealing into a lump that his mind couldn’t seem to digest. 

Gendry’d felt deeply relieved becoming acquainted with Hart’s young lady these past few weeks. She’d met him with all the pretty manners one would expect (but which never failed to make him feel stupid and tongue-tied) upon his arrival in the Winterfell courtyard. But there was a saucy sparkle in the depths of her amber eyes that he could see would rival the one that often glinted in Hart’s grey ones. The moment they were no longer on display, she’d quickly thrown off the mantle of Lady’s courtesies and graces, and become a _person_. A person who looked at his son with eyes that echoed the feelings in his own heart whenever he gazed at him. Pride, affection, humour, respect…love. And Hart’s face disguised nothing about his feelings for her either. Gendry wondered what that was like: being able—feeling free and secure enough— _worthy_ enough—to allow your true feelings to lay so plain upon your face for all the world to see? Was that how he’d appeared to Arya those pitifully few occasions that his desperation, frustration, hope or desire provoked him into revealing himself? 

Watching the pair taking supper together in the Great Hall, walking with them in the godswood, and— since Hart’s departure for the Wall—hawking with or hosting the Tallharts privately in the suite of rooms assigned to him of-an-evening, he’d come to think them very well-matched. What’s more, he found that he enjoyed her company himself. (And there’d never been many he’d embraced that way: Hot Pie, Sella, Maester Ormund, and others of his holdfast—of necessity; Ser Davos—heartily and with gratitude, but from a distance; Hart’s childhood playmates with paternal forbearing fondness; Jon—amid misplaced guilt and a stubborn need to _make right_ ; and long-ago—first—a scrawny, determined hellion of a girl.) 

Rena would be a welcome addition to their lives at Storm’s End. She could (and would) hold her own—make her own mark upon the place—but she was thoughtful, temperate, and diplomatic. They needed temperance in the Stormlands. Gendry found himself wondering—idly—whether she was the type of lady Arya had meant to wish upon him the night she’d refused his proposal. He thought it likely that she was. Although—quite demonstrably—perfect for Hart, such a one would never have done for him. This silent acknowledgement made him shake his head at himself. She was too tender. He hadn’t been bred for tender. Tender didn’t make his blood sing. He wanted the clang and clash of someone with a Valeryian-steel spine; needed someone with the hidden fire of dragonglass. He held no worries for his son’s heart as long as it was in Rena’s care. Which was a blessing from the gods, for it was clear as the strength in the lad’s arms and the shaggy black hair on his head that Hart had inherited the stubborn Baratheon devotion too. 

It was his own stubborn devotion that sent him out tonight, stalking the battlements. His thoughts returned to the letter. Jon’s terse words had made his stomach swoop to his toes. His vision blurred momentarily and he’d closed his eyes tightly, counting to ten, his mind racing before he’d read and reread the letter. At a rough estimate, he’d probably scanned it a dozen times before he allowed himself to understand the truth of it. Arya was back. And she’d inadvertently stumbled into their son. They were _together_ …at last…without him. The frown that creased his forehead deepened into a grimace and his jaw clenched. What, in the seven hells, was he supposed to do about that?

Turning a corner, into a sheltered stairwell, he encountered Sansa, prowling just as he was. 

“My Lord,” she said, grasping her elbows as she came to a halt before him. 

“Your Grace,” he greeted her, his head bowing slightly, “I couldn’t sleep.”

“Nor I,” she admitted, “Join me?”

Turning, they began walking back the way he’d come. 

“You’d mentioned, a desire to discuss certain…terms. You haven’t voiced them at the settlement table,” Gendry began. He pushed his teeming thoughts to the side. It was perplexing that she hadn’t made any further reference to what she’d alluded to moons earlier, when it was clearly important to her. And time was running out. But there’d never seemed to be an appropriate moment to bring it up privately.

“No,” she replied, “Nor will I. They aren’t meant for the table—for maesters, councilors, or the Tallharts. I mean them to be an understanding. Between…” she hesitated, her eyes narrowing, “family.” 

> _I can be your family._

Gendry’s footsteps stalled, Arya’s words ricocheting at him from the past. Sansa was calling him family. Or at least he thought she was. Maybe she meant Hart. “I don’t take your meaning, Your Grace.”

Sansa’s lips pressed together. She scanned their surroundings for listening ears before murmuring, “Arya is my heir. I shall have no other.”

Gendry felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise. He’d suspected based on that first letter…but hearing her lay things out so plain… Did she know Arya was as close as Castle Black? 

Her blue eyes fixed upon him, sharp as ice, “I know Wolkan brought you a raven from the Wall. From Jon. I received one as well. I believe neither of us holds information the other does not. You know she’s returned.” She barely allowed for his silent, shifty-eyed admission before she continued, “Hart’s first loyalty is, of course, to you and the Stormlands. As things stand, he cannot serve two masters in two kingdoms. I have never broached this question with him and I swear to you, now, that I will not. Should you choose to confide in him, that is your right and privilege as his lord father. I suspect you will both call me scheming.” Gendry clenched his jaw, glowering at her in reply, and Sansa couldn’t help a smirk gliding over her features. “Nevertheless,” she went on, “it remains my duty to the North and her people that leads me to make the following request. I should like it understood that one of their children should succeed to the Northern throne. Ideally, perhaps, a daughter, should she be supplanted by brothers. But,” she added with a flutter of her hand, “I leave those details to time and the gods.”

So that’s her game, Gendry thought to himself. But how...? Might as well voice the question. “How’s that meant to work, Your Grace? Hart and Rena send one of their children to you—here—as your ward for fostering? When? At birth so the North will accept them? Once there’re enough heirs born to share about? That’s hardly a fair arrangement for loving parents. And they would be. Or is _she_ to have care of them?” He wouldn’t dare say her name yet. With it all too fresh and uncertain. “Who’s to say she even means to stay? _She’s_ never claimed to want anything like what you’re suggesting. Why—by all the gods—would she want it now? Besides… you think your northern lords would just accept that? A southron bastard and his northern wife seizing power on behalf of their child because he happened to spend a few years here in his youth?” Gendry snorted. “Right. I’m sure a thousand-year peace is on the horizon.”

Sansa’s nails bit into his forearm, “He’s not a bastard,” she whispered vehemently. 

“No. He’s not,” Gendry agreed, his hand closing over hers and peeling her fingers away from his flesh, “I ensured that. Made sure Bran ensured that. For him and for the Stormlands. So there’d never be any question.”

“No,” Sansa answered, bitingly, “that’s not what I mean.”

“Then say what you mean, Your Grace. It’s late. I’m weary.”

Sansa leaned in, so close that he could feel her breath tickling his ear, “He’s no bastard if you were wed to his mother. He’s no bastard _if I say_ or—even better— _she says_ you were wed. Here, in our godswood. Last minute. In secret. Before the battle. _You_ could say…”

Gendry yanked himself out of her grasp. His blood was boiling. “Enough!” he barked before storming off as furious as the tempests that raged across the shores of his own lands.

Sansa watched him go, then turned and made her way slowly back to her chambers. She didn’t think she’d miscalculated, but there was time enough, yet, to allow Lord Baratheon to process what was on offer. She just had to hope that Arya’s presence would work in her favor and not to her detriment. Counting on Arya to embrace the role assigned to her had never been a wise wager. 

~

#### Along The Road

Arya spent much of her time as they travelled south from The Wall furtively noting what seemed (at least, to her) glaring examples of Hart’s Stark ancestry. Jon had warned her that there were more similarities between them than secrecy could withstand. Hart definitely exhibited traits she’d never seen evidence of in Gendry or her few encounters with Robert Baratheon, but simply _knew_ , deep in her bones, came through her. The way he held his lips when he was holding back was Catelyn Stark to the life. Arya knew that mannerism intimately: she’d been the frequent cause of its appearance on her mother’s face her entire life. Now she was _still_ the cause of it, but instead of it demoralizing her into mutiny as it had once done, it sent a thrill through her. Her mother might be long dead, yet, parts of her lived in this boy she’d brought into being. As did her other family. The interested and curious way he gazed out at the world reminded her distinctly of a young Bran perched on the top of a wall or looking out from a rooftop. His steady, good-humored confidence was Robb, his unflagging energy—Rickon, and his stoicism was as much Jon as it had ever been her father. She marveled at how these intangibles motivated her: making her desire a relationship with Hart that was certain and strong. 

As much as each nod to her own family brought her an unlooked-for secret delight, it was the echoes of Gendry that would occasionally stop her heart and steal her breath. When Hart’s eyes would widen in surprise or he was caught off-guard and he’d turn toward her it was like looking at the past. Although he hadn’t been swinging a hammer his whole life, he was well-muscled, tall, and broad-shouldered. She’d even caught him sporting Gendry’s shit-eating grin while jesting with his mates. When he met her eyes, he often looked up at her under his brows with the same slightly-pleading expression she’d seen on Gendry’s at several key moments in their lives and each time it cracked her a little farther. 

Before they’d left Castle Black, Jon asked, “How do you intend to handle this? D’you want me with you?”

She’d gripped his hand fiercely. No further words were necessary. He rode beside her now, Ghost and Nymeria keeping pace in the verge, enjoying the early summer sun. The fresh northern air smelled of warm pine, damp earth, and fresh grass. The scent brought a peaceful smile to her face. 

At her other side rode Hart. He’d ride ahead and fall back amongst the different members of their party, exchanging words with all of his companions throughout the day. Studying him now, Arya thought of another question she wanted to ask. “Can I ask…what is it that you want?” she’d posed the question suddenly and he startled a bit in his saddle. “From your life, I mean? After you’re wed? What would make you happy?”

“I want to lead the Stormlands,” Hart answered readily. “I want to help my people. I want father healthy and well for years to come, but I want to take over wherever he’d care to take a step back. I _like_ dealing with people. He’d rather…not.” A wry, knowing smile pulled at the corner of Hart’s mouth.

Arya snorted, then chewed on her bottom lip. So _that_ —at least—hadn’t changed about him. She slid a sidelong glance at Jon. His eyes were somber, but he smiled wistfully. He’d caught how much like Robb Hart sounded too. His aspirations were clear enough. But she wondered, in spite of herself: should she risk asking the question that she knew herself unentitled to ask? The one that could up-end all of his dreams and plans forever? She decided knowing was better than not. Besides, maybe Sansa’d already raised this with him. It was the sort of thing she’d do. She felt the old resentment suddenly rear its head inside her. She scowled at herself and tamped that feeling back down. “Did Sansa ever…? Has she…?” Hart was looking at her curiously. She took a deep breath and spit it out, “You considered being the heir to The North as well?” She eyed him warily. Jon leaned forward slightly to get a look around her; assessing the lad’s response. Hart settled his shoulders and looked up at the sky. She could see him weighing the idea in his mind before responding.

“How would that work, exactly?” he asked eventually. “King Bran formally declared me Da’s heir years ago and for the purposes of the Stormlands that will certainly suffice. They accepted Da readily enough when Queen Daenerys appointed him. They’ve seen me grow—helped train me, watched me learn and work for them. But for The North? I wasn’t raised here. I will always be an outsider. I’ve learned that much fostering here. You Northerners are insular. And the circumstances of my birth pose several…questions. No one knows I’m…,” Hart glanced significantly at Arya. _Hers._

“Sansa hasn’t asked that of you yet then?” Jon inquired gruffly. Hart’s eyebrows nearly reached his hairline. He shook his head in denial. Exchanging a knowing look with Arya, Jon added, “I’d wondered.” His expression was grim. 

“No. She hasn’t. When Da told me who I was, after you came to Storm’s End to see us—about my lineage that is—he made it plain that all the choices were mine. I shouldn’t be forced or manipulated into anything just because of the blood in my veins. He’s always said that no matter what I choose to do, the only thing he absolutely required of me was that I work hard, I learn, and that I be a good man.”

Arya’s tone held a satisfied note of approval, “I told him he’d make a wonderful lord. Knew he would. But he’s a fucking amazing father. Got that part exactly right.” She turned back to Hart whose eyes had widened, delightfully scandalized by the forceful compliment and the ringing satisfaction of her voice proclaiming it. “I didn’t ask because of me—or because it’s anything I’d wish for you. Not that you’re bound to anything I might wish for you anyway. I’ve no rights there. You don’t owe me anything. If anything, I owe you. The blood in your veins is mine, but you’re under no obligation to it. Trying to claim it would likely pose you more problems than I’d ever wish upon my worst enemy. I asked because I wanted to know,” she clarified. “What else?”

Hart’s eyes were wide. He hadn’t ever considered ruling in the North. Not past that first incredulous realization of his birthright when Da had told him who his mother was. Not even for one moment since he’d come to Winterfell. He’d learned to appreciate—even love—things about the North, but he loved more than the North: he loved the Stormlands too. “I want…Rena and I’ve talked. If it’s possible, I think a family would be…nice,” he added shyly.

Arya’s mouth twitched. If that was a dig at her it was a fair one and she could take it. She replied, “It can be. I grew up with a family like that. It can also be infuriating. Family doesn’t ensure agreeance or a lack of conflict. I guess…” she paused. “When did you know? About your lady, I mean?”

“When did you know about Da?” Hart countered. He did that sometimes. Issued a challenge out of the blue. Seeing how she’d react. With a start, she realized it was a tactic she often used herself—a provocation—a redirection. Her heart swelled slightly with this further evidence of kinship and she relaxed into the smile tugging at her cheeks.

“I was eleven when we met. Your father slightly younger than you are now. I loved him by the time I was twelve—though I didn’t know that’s what it was then—and feelings, well…sometimes they stick.”

She’d said it so matter-of-factly that Hart gaped at her. Arya grinned. He hadn’t been expecting her to be candid. Maybe she could afford to push a little further with him. “Have you and she…?” Arya raised one eyebrow suggestively.

Hart’s face flushed and he looked away from her quickly muttering, “No. Not yet.” After a moment he continued decidedly, “Besides, Da said the right woman at the right time would be the most important memory I’d ever give myself.”

Now, it was Arya whose face was suddenly betraying her. She could feel the flush running up her neck, around her ears and across her cheeks. She coughed and looked away. Hart grinned. “Awkward conversations go both ways, my lady.” With a slight bow, he cantered forward to join his friends. 

At Jon’s owlish chuckle, she whirled on him, glaring daggers. Jon only shook his head at her, mirth lighting his eyes. “He’s not timid about calling you out. He’s cheeky as you can be. And as unforgiving.” 

Arya’s shoulders slumped a little. “D’you think?” 

Jon’s expression softened. “No. Not really. Your corpse would be moldering at the Wall if he were. He’d never have invited you anywhere near Gendry or his bride if he wasn’t open to the idea of you. I can see he’s different than he was when I saw him last—learned how to barb his words and jab with them just as well as he does with a blade. Must’ve honed that craft with Sansa. But Gendry had him first. His heart smithed by him. They say he sat Gendry’s knee in the Round Hall as a babe.” 

“He didn’t really do that? Did he?” Arya scoffed, skepticism lacing her tone. 

“That’s what I was told when I was in Storm’s End. That Gendry’d held that lad on his lap in council for most of his infancy. His bannermen thought it wicked strange but Gendry’d said how was the boy supposed to learn to care about attending the people he was responsible for if all he knew of those meetings was the lack of care and attention he’d receive himself while his father attended them.” 

“Who told you that?”

“His friend Rawly’s mother—she was his wet-nurse.”

Arya shook her head. “Stupid.” But a smile pulled at the corners of her mouth. It was stupid because it was so _simple_ and so like him. 

“Was that true what you told him?” Jon asked.

“What?”

“The part about loving Gendry since you were twelve.” Jon couldn’t help recalling the conversation he’d had with Gendry years before. How awestruck Gendry’d been over the memory of his realized love for Arya. “Because if it’s not and you’re only saying what you think he’d like to hear, that’s not going to work, Arya. You were right when you said he doesn’t owe you. Anything you say he’ll use as a lens through which he’ll view everything about your relationship. He’d likely tell Gendry too, and if you don’t mean it…”

“I meant it,” she answered decidedly. Jon gave her a look. She huffed. “Like I said: I didn’t _know_ that’s what it was at first. In the beginning he was just like you and Robb—someone who looked out for me in the world. And I didn’t have anyone to look out for me. Father, Jory, all our men: gone. But he let me keep my business to myself even once he’d guessed I wasn’t a boy. Who knew a little more about the world because he was older. Knew a lot more about the world we were in than I did because he was born into it. Taught me how to keep silent and keep my head down instead of expecting everyone to always fall in line to the outspoken opinions of the little lady.”

“When did you _really_ know?” Jon asked. 

“When he said he wasn’t going to leave The Brotherhood to come with me to Riverrun. It hurt me. When he admired the Red Woman, it made me angry.”

“When he did _what_ , now?” Jon was flummoxed. All he’d ever heard about was the being sold. And the leeches.

“She came to The Brotherhood and we were shooting arrows and Anguy made some stupid remark about me not liking her because I was a girl…and Gendry _smirked_.” It still rankled.

Jon threw back his head and howled with laughter. Laughed so long and hard tears teemed from his eyes until his horse balked, evidently not enjoying the reverberations shaking along its spine.

Arya scowled at him. “It’s not one thing, at one time, you know,” she remarked defensively, “It’s a whole host of things that add up to realizing it. He’d look at me and we’d just know what the other person was thinking—what move the other was going to make. He’d smith at Harrenhal and I’d find ways to watch him. Watching him made me hungry—but food never quelled it. Didn’t figure out how it wasn’t even about food until later. And none of that had changed when he came to Winterfell.”

Jon waved a placating hand at her; she was veering dangerously close to territory that he’d no longer be comfortable treading. “So long as you do, you’ll be fine. Just hope the three of you can find a way not to muck yourselves about too much finding your way. Mucking it up is the easiest part.”

“I know,” Arya replied witheringly, “I’ve been doing _that_ for sixteen years.”

~

They’d had to camp a few nights on the road, and one had included another waterdancing lesson with Arya. Hart still wasn’t used to such a small opponent. Her size made her a difficult target—not to mention her speed and dexterity. He’d not been met with an opponent who could best him in more than a year, but now he’d been forced to yield _thrice_. And she’d _laughed_ at his attempted bait-and-switch. Her amusement amid the thrill of each bout lit her up in a way that was otherwise rarely evident. Hart supposed it was good for him to face new challenges—both in terms of his skill and character: he just wasn’t so certain that _his mother_ needed to embody quite so many of them all at once. 

Rawly called out boldly from the sidelines, “My Lady? Would you show us how you defeated the Night King? I’ll act stand-in, if it suits?” Rowdy cheers echoed this request from both the southern and Stormlander lads. It only made sense, Arya supposed: few of them had been born, let alone were old enough to remember anything but ballads and yarns about that time. She’d nodded curtly, beckoned Rawly forward, positioned him, and demonstrated the sleight of hand that had saved all of Westeros. There hadn’t been a hint of amusement on her face then: only impassive endurance. The next morning, Hart had ridden up alongside her and apologized for his friend. “Da shared some of his tales with Rawly and I when we were children together, my lady. He’s always liked the ones about the Long Night best—though he never picked up on how hard they were for Da to tell. If it’s the same for you, I’m sorry. He wouldn’t have meant to upset you.”

Jon Snow grunted, “A bloody legend’s not a comfortable thing to be. She’ll get used to it.” 

“S’pose you’d know, being resurrected from the flames by the Lord of Light himself,” Arya scoffed, rolling her eyes. She swung her gaze back to Hart, and smiled ruefully, “I wasn’t upset.” She should have realized. She’d been dubbed that title almost immediately following the battle. Her years away wouldn’t have diminished that achievement and the mystery surrounding her whereabouts in the interim would have made others more curious, not less. 

“Is that usually what they call him now? The Night King?” 

A confirmatory rumble emanated from Jon; Hart concurred. 

Arya hummed, musing, “Never been how I’ve thought of him. … _‘What do we say to the god of death?’_ She turned suddenly in her saddle so that she was staring at Hart. Her next questions were as sharp and steely as her eyes. “Has anyone ever asked you that? Do you know the answer?” 

Hart shook his head, transfixed by the seriousness of her gaze. 

“ _Not today_ ,” she pronounced purposefully. The words rang over the clip of horses’ hooves. “Syrio told me that. He died defending my escape the day they took my father away in King’s Landing. The day I stopped being Arya Stark of Winterfell and became whoever I needed to survive. I took his words with me that day. I told myself _‘not today’_ so many times that I lost count. And then one day, years later, as my home was under siege, stormed and ruined by rising dead-men and ice-eyed Others, the Red Witch asked me that question again. _‘What do we say to the God of Death?’_ And I knew. I knew what we said. Had spent almost half my life saying it. And this time it _was_ the God of Death. Ambling calmly into my home. Destroying and using people again and again and again. Targeting everyone: man, woman, child, and beast. The only ones I had left that mattered, the ones I despised, and all the rest besides. Tireless. Unending Death.”

Arya spoke without hesitation, without forethought. Her words holding Hart’s rapt attention. Jon’s horse had fallen back; he’d slowed to hold the rest of their column up, creating a swath of unmanned privacy for the pair.

“I vowed _‘not today’_ and it wasn’t. And then, suddenly—shockingly—tomorrow dawned. But those words were so ingrained. So much a part of me. When you become accustomed to being prey for the God of Death it’s an…incomprehensible…thing to find yourself suddenly free. And I wasn’t free. Not right away. There was still further loss to prevent, other more human foes. And then there were no names left to fight against and I was exhausted. Physically, mentally, emotionally. No one I’d fought for was who they used to be. That won’t make sense to you—I can’t explain all the reasons why that’s true—they aren’t my secrets to share—but it’s true. _I_ wasn’t who I used to be. None of it could ever be the same again. Everything I’d fought to learn, survived, surrendered, bartered, and lost and there was nowhere and nothing that was _mine_. _I_ wasn’t even me. My body commandeered—playing host—for someone else. I was the ‘Bringer of Dawn.’ And the gods seemed to want me to keep on bringing it forth. But bringing isn’t effortless. It takes its toll. It would have been so easy and terrible to just let your father have the shell that existed when it all fell away. Part of me wanted to,” she confessed.

Hart was looking at her fixedly. He hadn’t missed her reference to himself. This time not as a ‘wonder’ as she’d termed him before, but as a foreign invading entity. One image embraced him; the other pushed him away. Could there be truth in both? After avowing that she loved Da, this comment hit him like a slap to the face. It shook him. Finding his voice, he quietly interjected, “But why terrible?”

Arya could see the sudden caution flood his eyes. She attempted to explain, “He’d been handed the whole ballad: title, lineage, holdfast. Everything he deserved—not just because of the Baratheon blood in his veins but because he’d earned it—being honest, steadfast, hardworking, loyal. Not getting mired in the politics of this king or that queen. Just working. Trying to survive. To help humanity survive. And I was the only Lady he knew. And that’s why I couldn’t.”

“I don’t follow,” Hart declared, his consternation evident.

“I _had_ all those things, or at least, I could claim them with no effort whenever I wished. My parents used to tell me that someday I’d be married off to a strong, brave knight so I could run his castle and bear his children. I’d always rather have been the strong, brave knight.”

Her response seemed so absurd to him that Hart was startled into irreverent and incredulous laughter, “You couldn’t _both_ have been strong, brave knights running a holdfast together?” Nothing he’d ever witnessed from his father led him to believe that wouldn’t have been exactly what would have happened.

Arya rolled her eyes at him, then issued a derisive, mocking cough-of-a-laugh at herself, “I _can_ see sense in what you’re saying now. But then? I couldn’t. Had my own notions of what a proper Lady should be. Knew I couldn’t be _that_. You’ve been living with my sister. You’ll know what I mean.”

He did, as it happened. But he’d been prepared for this gambit: it was one of the things about her that Da, the Queen, _and_ Jon Snow seemed to agree on. He reflected, “You know, your sister seems to have learned to appreciate some spice in her ladies. Just look at who she’s chosen to spend nearly a decade and a half partnered with.” When Arya didn’t interject, he continued, “And, to be frank about it, my lady, if _you_ were the only Lady Da knew, _you_ were the one forming his opinion of what a Lady _should_ be. Da’s never been one not to know his own mind…just doesn’t bleat it about the way so many do.”

The smile that ghosted across Arya’s face held a wistful awareness of the truth. She’d read and reread the parchment before reluctantly handing it back to Hart. She’d seen his words, written in his own hand. She knew Gendry believed he still loved her. But she daren’t place all her hope in it. Despite her convictions. Despite her desires. Despite that incomprehensible experience of communion with him in the womb of the Moongarden. She couldn’t allow that hope to grow outside the bounds she’d allowed it. Not until she _knew_. 

And the only way she’d know was seeing him. That was how it had always been between them. Words were wind; action— _presence_ —having one another’s backs—was commitment. 

~

By the time they reached the outskirts of Winter Town Arya’s stomach was in knots. She pulled up, leading her horse out of the throng and off to the side. Jon reined in and joined her.

“I’ll go in alone. Later. Not with all of this.”

Jon looked at her appraisingly, his tone doubting, “You sure?”

She rolled her eyes, cast him a withering look and then nodded. “Tell him…” but she wasn’t sure which him she was referring to or what, by all the gods, she wanted Jon to say. She scowled. Jon seemed to understand. He kicked his horse into a trot and rejoined the party. 

‘ _Be who you are_ ,’ echoed the voice of the acolyte in her memory. She would. She _was_. But she’d be herself on her own terms or what even was the point?

~

Gendry was in the main courtyard to greet Hart’s entourage. Wedged between the Queen and the Tallharts, his blue eyes scanned each rider avidly as they appeared under the gate. She wasn’t there. He fought against letting his shoulders sag with the realization. Unless…he scanned the crowd again. Could she have disguised herself the way she’d done all those years ago? With a twitch of his shoulders he shook that thought away: that would only raise more questions for the small party they were travelling with and she’d clearly been herself at the Wall. 

His boy practically leapt from his horse, bowed formally to Queen Sansa and kissed her knuckles courteously, before clamping his arms around Gendry’s shoulders and squeezing him tight. “Jon said she’s coming in later,” he muttered into his father’s ear, “She was right with us ‘til Winter Town.” Gendry held him tightly for another moment before grasping the back of his son’s head and bending their foreheads together, eyes locked in steady, wordless conversation. Hart’s questioned his: somber and worried. With another solid, comforting clasp of the boy’s shoulder and neck, Gendry released him and watched Hart’s expression ease, bowing before his betrothed, raising her hand to his lips—his face aglow—giving her homage. Hero pushed right in beside him, nosing Rena’s skirts. Rena blushed, her amber eyes shining, dropping one hand to scratch Hero’s ears in welcome, her gaze never leaving Hart’s. Brandon and Erena Tallhart exchanged fond glances at the sight and Gendry felt himself basking, for a moment, in their mutual happiness.

He felt the Queen shift slightly beside him. Although deeply courteous in public, they hadn’t really spoken since that night on the battlements. Sansa’s suggestion, coupled with the necessity of crafting an immediate letter to Hart had brought Gendry only disquiet. He’d allowed to himself the relief of acknowledging that it wouldn’t be up to him to counter any false claim Sansa might make alone: Arya could speak with her own voice. And he knew she _would_. Especially against something she didn’t want. But he was irrationally terrified that maybe he—or she-- _might_ want it and Sansa’s nonsense would put a firm end to it. For that’s what it was: nonsense. But it was hopeful romantical nonsense. _That_ was the danger. The idea of washing all the years away: claiming they’d loved so deeply they’d wed in secret before the battle when he was a baseborn bastard blacksmith and she was the long-lost-Lady-in-disguise, battling through the Long Night together, her epic last-ditch maneuver followed by the implication of such sweet-brief joy that they’d conceived a son. A wondrous son who could succeed to both their Houses—who could _also_ bring a new dawn. But that’s where the nonsensical dream would, inevitably, turn into a nightmare of unanswerable and unaccounted for questions that weren’t lovely and hopeful and romantic. What made Arya sail away from love and her own child? How could she dare? What kind of woman does that? What kind of mother? What kind of man hid a marriage for sixteen ruddy years? Who’d go to all the trouble of legitimizing an already legitimate child? Mayhaps, they’d speculate, the child’s conception wasn’t quite so…pure…and consenting. What was King Bran’s motivation and incentive for going along with either charade? What schemes and plots were afoot? The whole thing made Gendry sick the longer he considered it. Hart’s entire life, Westeros had abided in relative peace and stability. Raising any part of this would mean hazarding all of it…again. For nothing more than power. These thoughts assailed Gendry’s conscious and unconscious mind incessantly.

Jon approached. Sansa held out her hand. Jon inclined his head to her, coolly, and raised her hand to his lips. She smiled at him but the corners of her mouth remained tight. Releasing her hand and turning from her, Jon gripped Gendry’s arm in fellowship and genuine pleasure warmed his features. 

“Where’s Arya?” Sansa murmured, her lips barely moving, just loud enough for the three of them to hear as she eyed the two direwolves sniffing around in Jon’s wake. The sight of the pair had caused a murmur of excitement and speculation amongst the assembled throng. 

Jon’s eyes flicked briefly back to her, “Ever known her to enjoy these spectacles?” he growled. Turning his eyes to Gendry’s he continued reassuringly, “She’ll appear. On her own terms.”

Sansa made an ambiguous sound deep in her throat. 

Gendry felt something kindle in his gut. It was always on her terms. He was—the Others take him—tired of finding himself ambushed by her terms. This time, if she ever bloody _showed_ , he’d have some terms of his own.

~

“She’s not what I expected.”

Rena combed her fingers through Hart’s thick hair, his head resting in her lap as they lounged beneath one of the older trees in the godswood. He closed his eyes, enjoying the sensation. 

“Hmm?” Rena inquired. She was outwardly calm, but her mind was racing to put together all the details Hart had shared with her since they’d sought sanctuary amongst the weirwoods. It seemed…prudent…to listen first. Especially to something that had the potential to change…everything. He’d been unequivocal with her: he’d always intended to tell her once they were wed, but Lady Stark’s sudden and unexpected appearance forced his hand sooner. He wanted—needed—her counsel and would respect her advice, but this was to be the first true secret of their imminent partnership: members of her own House, her own family, weren’t to be told. Knowing this information brought her under the cloak of her new House more surely than the wedding ceremony would do. She’d agreed without reservation—asking only for an immediate tally of the people who knew the truth so that she couldn’t be caught out—wouldn’t blunder into any reveal that she shouldn’t. Listening to Hart’s reflections, she owned that she wanted to meet Arya Stark very much. Sooner rather than later.

“She’s…smaller,” his lips twitched, “Much shorter than you. Bold and defensive, engaging and repelling all at the same time. I didn’t know what to make of that at first.”

“But...you like her?” 

Hart caught Rena’s left hand in his own, kissed it, then cradled it over his heart, threading their fingers. He squeezed. Looking up at her, he nodded. “I think so. She’s been painfully forthright—intimidatingly frank—trying to explain herself. Her choices. Her actions. Her thinking. It’s…a lot. I just don’t know if I did right…”

Rena waited for him to finish, her right hand stilling in his hair as he mustered his thoughts. 

“She offered to stay at Castle Black until the wedding was over if I wanted. Da wrote that it was my choice if I wanted her here. But for the first time it didn’t feel like it was a free choice he was allowing me. There were consequences implied.”

“I’m not certain I understand, love,” Rena murmured. “All decisions have consequences.”

“Yes…but…this one felt like…making the other choice…the consequences might be a sort of…punishment.” 

“A punishment? For what? Surely not. He’s a lamb of a man. Not vindictive like that at all. Not like…” Rena paused, she’d been about to say ‘the Queen can be’ but then realized: the queen was Hart’s aunt.

Hart scoffed a breath and countered, “You’ve never seen him angry—in a fight or in battle—he’s a bull. He’s no lamb.”

“What, by all the gods, could he have written that you’d take that way? I may not know him as well as you do, but he spent time with me—on purpose—while you’ve been away, trying to get to know me. What you’re saying explains his deeper reticence and distraction from a certain point forward, but there’s nothing clearer to me: he loves you—bone deep.”

Hart sighed, “I know he does. And punishment _is_ likely too strong a word, but I haven’t any other that feels as if it fits,” Hart allowed. He pushed on, trying to explain himself, “He strongly hinted that if I didn’t—or couldn’t—make her welcome that he’d go to her—anywhere. That he’d leave me for her. For keeping him from her.” Hart’s tone had become choked and plaintive; a single tear leaked out of the corner of his left eye and he turned his head, burrowing into Rena’s skirts in an attempt to conceal it. It hadn’t struck him that way on his first reading. Or even his second or third. But somewhere along the line, after he’d shown part of the letter to Arya, he’d begun to process Gendry’s words that way. And saying so, aloud to Rena, it _hurt_. 

Rena’s heart ached for him and her fingers began stroking his scalp gently again as he shook silently, the toll of the secrecy and solitary burden of the past days finally making itself felt. He’d left for The Wall carefree and full of enthusiasm; he’d returned to her with an uncharacteristically gloomy pensiveness. A tendency, she’d noted, which was evident in his father. She did wish she could read that note. Hart’s inner turmoil was palpable. But she thought she could clearly see both perspectives here. Hart had always had all of Gendry. Unlike many young lordlings he wasn’t spoiled in the usual ways—he wasn’t useless or full of himself or only interested in cultivating his skills in one area—he’d been made to work and train and learn more than was usual—to understand smallfolk and highborn alike. But he hadn’t brothers and sisters: he had friends, bannermen, and subjects. He hadn’t watched his father gain strength from or sacrifice for anyone above himself in all his life. The two of them had had each other and—like any child—he’d taken that devotion for granted. She thought she understood what it must have felt like for Gendry to set his own feelings aside and let Hart come North. She was, herself, ready to leave all she knew, her own home and people and ride south into a land she’d never seen, to abide by the laws of a King she’d never known, just to be with the boy who was shaking with silent sobs against her skirts. That’s the kind of love she had for him. It’s the kind of love she could see that Lord Baratheon had for him. But unlike Hart, she knew that you could have that kind of love for more than one person—and that sometimes one had to take precedence over another—that sometimes love involved triage. 

When Hart’s shoulders stopped shaking, she leaned down and kissed his temple gently. “Can I see the letter?” she asked. He nodded, fumbling inside his coat’s inner pocket and passing her two folded-together halves of a single letter. She took more than a moment to read it, lips pursing, eyes widening and narrowing, her cheeks flushing over the depth of feeling in it. Lord Baratheon was a strong, kind, circumspect man. But here, his heart was laid bare on the page. She’d never have known, looking at him, that anywhere inside lay this kind of burning passion. 

At last, she folded the letter back together and handed it back to Hart, offering softly, “I think you’re feeling the disruption of what you thought the future looked like, love. You saw us getting wed and travelling south and settling in at Storm’s End with your father mentoring us as we started to take on our roles there. But I don’t think you considered what it was like for your father without you there. He’s spent three years living without anyone he cares about.” Hart was gazing up into her face now, a frown wrinkling his brow. She pressed a finger into it and caressed a line across each brow, smoothing the frown away. His mouth was mustering a protest, however, and she placed a finger over his lips, hushing him, “No, love, not _really_ cares about. He’s had nothing and no one but his memories of you and your mother. You’ve had me. You and I were learning to love one another. It will never be as it was for the pair of you in the Stormlands again. Because I’ll be there. He’s had to reckon with that alone since the moment you told him about me. You haven’t had to make terms with those changes yet because you’ve been here and you’re getting everything you wanted and you just assumed it would continue looking just as it always has done. But now _she’s_ come back and it’s upended things. Given your father choices of his own that weren’t available before. I think you made the right choice, inviting her. The generous choice. The only choice. It wasn’t a punishment or a threat for him to give you the facts—for him to hold nothing of his own thoughts and feelings back from you.”

“But if he left…”

A parallel that Rena knew he hadn’t considered occurred to her. Her visage firmed, but her tone was conciliating, “You left him first, love. You don’t get to go off and have adventures and find love and then begrudge the man who’s worked on your behalf and put you first your whole life the chance at finding his own. She left. You left. You both sought your own fulfilment first. And from what you’ve told me he’s remained entirely supportive of you both despite what it costs _him_. Allow him the grace of exploring that same opportunity himself. She didn’t leave you alone and uncared for. _He’d_ leave you with me. Love has, and will always, attend you regardless.” Smacking the top of his head quite suddenly, she admonished, “Smarten up!”

Hart’s hand flew to the crown of his head, wide-eyes shocked and rueful. She fixed him with a beady eye, “Love isn’t a contest—some winner takes all bout. My parents love one another as much as they love any of my brothers and I. I don’t love them any less for loving you. I love you all differently…but just as much.” 

Hart planted his palms on the grass and pushed himself up from her lap. Bringing one of his hands to her face, he allowed his thumb to caress the curve of her cheek. He kissed the tip of her nose. “I’d guess you’re right. I’ve never had family the same as you have,” he said, gazing deep into her eyes, “teach me how?” he whispered. 

Rena leaned forward, her lips barely brushing his, “I’ll hold your hand while you learn, love, but the three of you will have to navigate it yourselves. Just as we will, building our own.” 

Hart leaned his forehead against hers, took a steadying breath, and then nodded. One of her hands tangled itself into his hair, encouraging him closer, “Now kiss me,” she commanded, “Hard. Show me you’ve missed me.”

He did.

~

By the end of the evening, Arya still hadn’t turned up in the Hall. Gendry’d watched Hart and Rena arrive for the evening meal holding hands; faces flushed, windblown and happy. The boy appeared more settled than he had earlier; they’d hied themselves away from everyone abruptly and although Gendry wanted nothing more than to speak properly and plainly with his son to suss out where things stood with Arya, he’d respected the pair’s need for time. He hadn’t thought to ask Hart before if Rena knew, but it seemed likely that he’d tell her now if he hadn’t already. They’d all eaten and drank and conversed—the lads excitedly sharing their lark at The Wall with the assembled court. But before long Gendry’s constant scanning of the hall for Arya brought back his memories of the night he’d been ennobled. So much so that he almost expected to look up and find the Hound staring back at him with that sardonic _knowing_ expression. He’d finally excused himself and made for the forge. All he wanted was some peace. From all of it. He was tolerably certain he could find it in the methodical rhythm of the hammer. Hitting things usually worked: it either made something useful and spent his frustration or put an end to the problem outright. Either way, it was a better plan than letting his nerves jangle themselves about like a jumpy cat all night. 

He wasn’t sure when Hart joined him, lost in the rhythm of the work as he’d been, but the familiarity of it made the deep frown on his forehead ease. They spent some time working alongside one another without speaking. Eventually, their eyes met. Hart’s eyebrow quirked itself at him. Gendry answered his look with a wry grimace. Hart gestured for him to come examine his own project. 

Gendry knew exactly what Hart was working on. He’d shown it to him almost the moment he first arrived at Winterfell, asking for Gendry’s input. A gift for his lady. The boy’d consulted with the midwives and Maester Wolkan about what Rena might need for tools of her own. For the time being he intended to have them wrapped in a roll of fine soft leather for easy travel, but had designed plans for a chest to store them in that he’d have the artisans of Storm’s End craft as a welcome gift. Gendry was quietly impressed by the thoughtful practicality of the gift. Ornaments were always easily transportable, but Rena wasn’t a lady for ornaments: these would suit her far better. With less than two days left before the wedding ceremony, time was of the essence. 

“What’s left?” he asked, coming to stand alongside his son and picking up a pair of exquisitely fashioned scissors. Hart had been finishing the incising on the finger loops: on the finger blade, a sentinel tree that resolved its trunk into an antlered hook that formed the finger rest. A nod to both their Houses. It was beautiful work. Obviously made with care. His felt his face softening as he glanced sideways at Hart. His boy was studiously avoiding saying something. He could tell by the way he held his mouth. 

“Everything okay, mate?” Gendry probed, “You and Rena disappeared so quick…”

Hart shook his head. “Fine, Da. Really. Just need to get this finished. Shouldn’t have gone to the Wall, really. Taken that time…”

“Yes. You should,” Gendry replied firmly, clapping a hand to the back of the lad’s neck. He could feel the tension there, under his hand. He flexed his fingers, massaging the lad’s muscles. Hart’s shoulders drooped, then lightly shrugged him off.

“If I hadn’t…”

“She’d still be back. We just wouldn’t know. Could have marched into your wedding feast bold as ever she was and shocked us all then. In front of everyone. When she brings a spectacle, heads roll.” He was thinking of the feast at The Twins when no one had known she was alive and present until it was far, far too late for House Frey and the example made of Littlefinger that shouted House Stark’s resilience to the world. He remembered wrapping his arms around her—holding her back from attacking The Hound and the clear picture in is head—relayed by many a bard over the years—of her leap from the trees that brought a final end to the resurrecting wights and the shattering of the Night King. But his mind turned, also, to the understated moments…of her eyes quietly welling with tears of betrayal in the caves of The Brotherhood, of her glimmering at him across this very workbench as he called her milady, of the burning light in her eyes as they chased one another’s lips and the way that light snuffed itself each time she pushed him away—in the corridor here, the catacombs under the dragon pit—her birthing room in Tarth. When she wasn’t open to a spectacle was when she was most dangerous to _him_. 

Hart’s voice recalled him to this moment, “She was good about _not_ doing that, actually. Took me off outside the castle walls away from everyone when she realized what she’d walked into.”

More than she’d done so far for him, Gendry thought, his earlier irritation with her rekindling. She was here, somewhere, skulking, and she knew he knew it. _That_ was torture. “Need any help?” he asked to distract himself.

Hart shook his head, “I’ve only the knife to finish yet and I want it all to be my own work, Da. But I’ll work alongside you awhile if you don’t mind?” He sounded cautious—as if he were seeking reassurance that he was welcome. That was new. The forge had always been as much his respite as Gendry’s—a place to reconnect and escape. They’d always worked on projects side by side. With all the changes going on around them though… Besides they weren’t working at home in their own forge: this one was, ostensibly, _hers_. Sharing this terrain, sharing a personal but independent knowledge of _her, was_ new. 

Gendry nodded, “I’ve a sword I can keep myself busy with.” 

This was how Arya found them, an hour or so later, companionably working, oblivious, the rest of the forge silent and dark around them. She’d entered soft-footed as she had done years before, peeping at them from a shadowed corner. The sight of them together stunned her—made her involuntarily catch and hold her breath. Limned before the only forge unbanked for the night, both shirtless, dueling hammers wielded against steel and anvil, the boy of her youth appeared as if resurrected from her memories alongside the brawnier, bearded, bull of a man she’d been longing…and dreading…to see.

Arya’s mouth fell open—she couldn’t help it—and she felt a flush of desire crawl up her neck, touch her cheeks, and pulse in her lower belly. He hadn’t changed at all, and yet he’d changed immeasurably. He might be Robert Baratheon’s son, but he hadn’t let himself go to flesh the way Robert had done. He was solid and trim, the muscles of his back stretching and flexing each time his hammer reverberated off the steel and rebounded into the air. Soot and sweat trickled down his spine and she felt herself overcome by an inexplicable hankering to lick him clean. Her throat had gone dry and for some reason a lump the size of a dragon’s egg seemed to have formed there. She swallowed, trying futilely to dislodge it. 

Hart turned to plunge the knife he was working on into the quench and caught sight of her: fingers gripping the door-arch, eyes wide as saucers, cheeks as pink as a maid’s in spring. Her gaze was fixed, immovably, on Da. The hunger in her eyes as she watched him could be described as wolfish—her eyes devouring him as if he were a feast after a long deprived fast.

Hart’s glance darted to his father. Gendry was almost ready to quench his blade too. He appeared unaware of her presence. Hart pulled his own tongs from the liquid and stepped back. Safest to let Da put the hot metal down before alerting him. As Gendry turned toward him and plunged his sword, the steam hissing up around him, Hart tossed his eyes back to Arya. He could see, even from this distance, that she’d sucked her bottom lip between her teeth and her eyes glowed like the white-hot embers in the fire behind him: she looked feral. Hart knew himself entirely invisible to her in this moment. He’d never seen such _need_ written outright on anyone’s face before. It made him feel funny. He shuffled his feet. Da glanced up at him. He thought the funny feeling must have taken over his expression as well, because Da started to ask, “What’s wrong, mate?” before his eyes tracked Hart’s back over to where Arya stood motionless in the shadows. 

Gendry dropped his tongs with a clank. The sword he’d been dousing clattered, forgotten (and, likely, unsalvageable), against the sides of the quench barrel. All the air had suddenly vanished from the forge …and his lungs. He couldn’t breathe. But his chest heaved in spite of the lack of air. His brain felt as if it were inhabited by a swarm of bees. He scrubbed a hand through his hair and gripped the back of his neck as if afraid it might float off if he didn’t keep a-hold of it. Looked down at the ground and then met her eyes again, his jaw clenching and his eyes burning. Sixteen years—very nearly to the day—since he’d last seen her. She hadn’t disappeared when he glanced away. He’d been almost… _almost_ certain she would.

After what could have been eons of silence, punctuated by nothing but the roaring crackle of the forge, they both seemed to remember that there was someone else present. Gendry appeared to recollect Hart’s existence first—reaching out to him, beckoning him closer and, when Hart stepped to his side, steadying himself, clasping the boy’s shoulder. Arya’s eyes fastened on him and a fierce pride crossed her face that made Hart’s stomach flip just as it had the day he’d seen her across the Hall in Castle Black. The sight of him seemed to strengthen her and she pushed herself forward, taking a few steps across the floor. 

She’d always prided herself on not giving anything away. But Gendry noted that she wasn’t hiding anything now. She was as open to them both as she’d been the day she’d labored to bring Hart into the world. As she’d been the night they’d made him. She was as fully Arya Stark as he’d ever seen her and there was only one thing he could find to say: “Welcome home, milady. You look…good.”

“So do you,” she said with such soft sincerity and a quirk of her lips upwards, “You’ve gotten…better.” She was remembering. A husky chuckle ghosted from Gendry’s lungs. Hart was eyeing them both apprehensively, as if they might burst into flames at any moment. The thought seized Gendry’s heart and squeezed: he thought it possible that _he_ , at least, _might_.

“What brought you back, Lady Stark?” Gendry’s voice was hoarse. Hart shifted as if to depart and leave them to it, but his father’s fingers clenched themselves into his shoulder. He stilled, waiting. His mind burbled with thoughts like a pot boiling over. Should he have told Da that he’d shown Arya that snippet of his letter? It felt like a betrayal of the highest sort—now—that he hadn’t. But he’d had to be sure, before bringing her here that she wasn’t going to hurt him again. Only now did it occur to him that he might have been wrong: despite Gendry’s unequivocal words in the letter, perhaps he wouldn’t have left—gone running after her. Perhaps he’d only wanted to guarantee a meeting. For closure. To put her behind him for good and all. 

Arya’s eyes pinned Gendry as he uttered the title she’d always disavowed. Her mouth twisted: vacillating between exasperation and amusement, “I..,” she began. Stopped. She cleared her throat, firmed her stance, and took a few purposeful strides in their direction, “Hart’s been generous with me since we met at Castle Black. I know I don’t deserve it—leaving him—sending you away with him—the way I did. But I’d like to know him. It’s no excuse, but I wasn’t capable of more than giving you to each other, then.” 

Gendry’s shoulders seemed to lose some of their tension at her words but his voice was rough and unyielding as he queried, “What are you capable of now, Arya?”

A loaded question, but his challenge opened a new path between them. Her eyes flashed, “You, above all, know exactly who I am and what I’m capable of, Gendry. I told you everything. More than I’ve told anyone else, ever.” She watched the apple in his throat bob as he swallowed, his deep blue eyes fastened, unblinkingly, on her own. 

Her thumb flicked at a catch holding something together at her right hip. The tips of her fingers knew what they were seeking. Her forefinger and thumb pressed tightly against the rounded roughness of the dragonglass, sliding it into her right palm, finding the right grip. In two quick flicks of her wrist she launched one blade after another into smooth, high, rotating arcs. She saw both men’s eyes flare. Hart gasped, recoiling, a flash of disbelieving horror erupting across his features. Gendry’s jaw clenched, and he gripped Hart’s shoulder more tightly, holding him securely in place. She hadn’t thought this through at all, and Hart’s face in particular brought the seed of doubt into her mind, but the memories that assailed her on all sides of this place had presented an idea she thought she could make meaning from. If they’d just hold on and let her. Each throwing knife landed squarely, just as she’d intended: one embedding itself in the workbench in front of Gendry, one wobbling slightly in the surface of the workbench to Hart’s immediate left. The last, she held out before her, hilt first. “You gave me these when he was born. I’ve carried them with me ever since. Having them’s saved my life more than once.” 

Gendry reached out and closed his hand around the hilt of the blade embedded in the workbench in front of him. Pulling it free in one smooth draw, he examined the sigil embedded in the dragonglass: the Baratheon stag. Hart leaned closer to him, peering at the sigil over his shoulder. Gendry’s eyes pierced hers again, his mouth a firm line.

“I used that blade to clamber out of tight spots, to swing myself out of the way of a ship’s falling mast, wedge a door or two closed when others wanted them forcibly opened, helped us harness a leviathan to give us a tow when our ship was becalmed,” she explained. Her expression turning wry, she added, “Brought down an aurochs that fed us for several weeks.” Again, Gendry’s jaw clenched, visibly.

She gestured, encouragingly, her face contrite, at the blade to Hart’s left. He reached out and, with some effort, wriggled the blade free of the wood. A whip-like sword—not unlike the Needle at her hip—was depicted overlaying a hammer in the dragonglass. His eyes widened, “Me? he asked astonished, his eyes flitting between both parents, “This sigil’s mine?”

Gendry cleared his throat and shifted his eyes from Arya to their son, “Our tools, combined, crafted you.” He jerked his chin toward the one still in Arya’s hand. “That last one’s got the Stark direwolf.”

Hart wanted to laugh at himself. Here and he’d thought he was being so original—romantic and clever—making Rena the tools of her trade and embellishing them with the art of their Houses when his own father had evidently done the same. His own talents would never measure up: these throwing knives were exquisitely dangerous pieces of art. 

“Hart’s blade stopped a basilisk in Yi Ti and a scallylion in Ulthos. You’ll not have heard of those: poisonous teeth and acid-blood that burns the earth or whatever life it touches. Didn’t blemish the knife one bit, though! Seems, if anything, to have somehow made it stronger. Took the head off a viper that got too close to a villager’s baby, once, as well.” She shivered, remembering how fast and unthinking her reflex had been that day and the mother’s genuine, tearful gratitude. This one?” Arya flipped the Stark blade and caught it, “Stopped a man stealing from a blind beggar widow; made a lordling think twice before trying it on with an unwilling servant girl…” She resumed her accounting, “Used all three knives combined to bring down a walking lizard in Sothoryos: planted one in each eye before it stood still long enough to land one in its’ chest.” Her voice changed, the clanging pride and thrill of her accomplishments and adventures giving way to a more self-effacing, subdued, and oddly penitent Arya. “Wore all three into my final trial in the Moongarden too. Wasn’t supposed to be armed at all, there, but I slept with them on. Could leave Needle under the mattress and my dagger on the nightstand, but I couldn’t do without them…somehow. It was as if,” she offered timidly, her musings laden with sincerity, “we were working together, always, to bring me home.”

They were both staring at her, expressions grave, processing her words.

“What I lost somewhere between leaving Winterfell when I was younger than you,” she nodded towards Hart, “and finding you again,” she raised her chin at Gendry, “was my actual heart. I sacrificed it. Didn’t know how to live any other way but without it. And having one grow again inside me was terrifying. And then it was out in the world and I couldn’t risk loving with it and having to sacrifice it again. It was too much! The gods always take. I gave everything… and I was completely sure whatever more I gained they would only take again. I don’t know what made you name him as you did but you got that right, Gendry. You planted my new heart inside me and then I gave you my heart to fight for and you’ve held onto it, kept it safe and made it strong for sixteen bloody years without any indication that I’d ever come back to claim it. And it’s unfair of me to even try. But I’m here and I want my heart back. When… _if_ you’re ever ready to lay claim to me, return those throwing knives and I’ll know.” Years ago, Arya Stark had scorned such unrestrained feeling as weak and mouse-like, but her grey eyes didn’t own such scorn now: instead, they pleaded, communicating all her long-withheld longings. 

It had slowly dawned on Hart that she was speaking both literally and figuratively—and the literal part was about _him_. That somehow, to her, he represented everything she’d lost and everything she’d hoped to find. “You mean me, then?” he asked, haltingly, “The heart that grew inside you?”

Arya’s eyes locked with those of her son, “Yes,” she affirmed, “You are the child I bore and a member of my pack. Whether you want me to be your family is your decision. Not mine. Like I told you as we rode here: I haven’t earned that and you certainly don’t need to take on the obligations of being my family. Not if you don’t want to. If that time ever does come, return the knife and I’ll understand.”

“And Da?” Hart persisted, his hand wrapping itself around the hilt of the knife and clenching until he could feel the two rough edges marking his palm. Gendry felt himself wishing that the earth beneath him would swallow him whole as Arya’s eyes came to rest upon his but her eyes softened as she vowed, “Like I said to you on The Wall, Hart: he’s pack. Always has been. Always will be. But I’ve hurt him worse than I’ve hurt you. He knew me. You never did. He offered himself, more than once, to me. And I didn’t know how to accept everything he offered. I won’t presume, after all these years, that he’d offer it…”

Gendry’s voice broke as he interjected, “Presume, Arya. By all the gods, presume.”

Hart’s gaze flashed nervously between the pair of them assessing and analyzing. “I should go,” Hart said quite suddenly. The funny feeling was back and he had a name for it now: second-hand desire. He’d felt it sometimes simmering away after spending an evening with Lady Yara and Sansa. Or that time Cregan took him into Winter Town and although he’d declined a woman himself, waited in the brothel’s taproom for Cregan to finish. (He’d never gone with him again and had felt disgusted with himself afterwards that he’d stayed. Listening was…unnerving.) As he’d come to know…and want…Rena, well, he understood first-hand desire to be an overwhelming, ravening, rapacious beast. But these were his _parents_. He needed to get out of here. **Now**. The knife gripped at his side, he made hastily for the door. But he couldn’t help hearing Gendry’s stricken, gravelly voice.

“You say,” Gendry began, “that you want your heart back. I’d give it if I could, Arya. The gods know I would. But until you return mine, I think I’ll hang onto yours, if it’s all the same.” Hart glanced over his shoulder, his heart in his throat. His father had skirted the end of the workbench and was hovering mere paces from Arya. With sudden force, he raised his arm and drove the Baratheon knife firmly into the wooden surface beside her with a thunk that buried it nearly to the hilt. He heard Arya gasp. Cheeks aflame, Hart fled into the night. 

Arya stared, wide-eyed, at him. Gendry stared back; eyes darkened with intent…and desire. The silence lengthened and grew. Both of them were flushed and breathing hard. It wasn’t just be the heat of the forge. It was more. What it always was, kindling between them. 

“You mean it?” she whispered at last, head tilting, her hand coming to rest on the hilt of the knife. His hand hovered over hers briefly, then settled upon it. His strong hand clenched itself around hers and, together, they withdrew the blade. When it was free, he pushed her hand to her hip. Eyes never leaving his, she returned the knife to its home, dropping it lightly back through the clamping ring alongside her Stark one. They rattled lightly.

Gendry took one step closer to her, grasped her elbow in one hand and raised his other to brush a wisp of escaping hair behind the shell of her ear. She leaned into his hand as if seeking his warmth and closed her eyes. His hand flexed and he gripped the back of her neck. Her eyes opened. Gendry’d bent himself toward her—his lips hovering near her own. She looked up at him, breathless and hopeful, and he spoke dead into her eyes the very words she’d carried with her so long, yearning to hear again:

“One, Arya. There’s only ever been one. You.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, um…I **hope** this lives up to any expectations. To be clear: there _is_ more to come and I intend (as best I can) to keep to the every-two-weeks posting schedule. 
> 
> This was the chapter where this story ended when I originally sketched the outline almost a year ago (with an additional concluding epilogue). That epilogue remains under construction because I don’t feel like things are resolved enough—that there’s enough firmly set in place—so that the jump to it works yet. Consequently, there are a few more chapters on their way and some events/interactions that would have originally transpired here are pushed further on into upcoming chapters to give everything room to breathe. Thanks for wending your way with me on this journey! 😉


	9. Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Sansa have it out.  
> Hart and Rena grow closer.  
> Arya and Gendry's reunion comes laden with Some Baggage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Henceforward, this story’s rating changes from M (as it was posted in the beginning) to E.  
> (Because romantic reunions and love-based marriages have a tendency to lean to smut.) *squee*

### The Great Hall: After the Evening Meal

Sansa swiveled in her seat the moment Lord and Lady Tallhart took their leave, “Thought you said she’d be in later?”

“That’s what she said. Her wolf’s here. What more proof d’you need that she’s about?”

“But where _is_ she?”

Jon shrugged as he took another gulp of his ale. “No point agonizing over it. She’ll make herself known once she’s ready.”

Sansa’s lips pressed themselves into a firm line. “There’s so much to make ready and a wedding to bring off. It would be preferable if she’d be quick about it so plans can be laid.”  
“What more plans need making? Thought you’d declared her your heir?”

“I did.”

“So…?”

“It meant very little as long as she was away. Her being here…”

“Opens doors or closes them?” Jon’s gaze was shrewd. 

“Both. But I’m not certain which doors are which yet.”

“Don’t imagine she knows that herself,” he muttered off-handedly.

Sansa’s eyes widened imperceptibly, “You know something.” Her hand caught his forearm.

Jon’s eyes marked her hand resting on his arm before they returned to her own, “What I know,” he said quietly, the growl in his voice gruffer than before, “is that Your Grace best leave off making plans and decisions on behalf of other people.” Sansa’s hand retreated to her lap, but her countenance was as coldly serene as ever. She began to speak, but Jon cut her off, “I’m not judging your declaration of her as your heir—that’s only common sense and a formalizing of general understanding. Thought you might have learned, though, about the consequences of meddling with other people’s secrets.”

“Still upset about that are you?” Sansa replied, peering out at the wider hall and nodding pleasantly at someone, as if the conversation with Jon was mere courtesy and not intensely personal.

Jon set his cup down, with some force, “Your dismissal tells me you haven’t learnt.”

“I did what was best for The North.” 

He scoffed, “The world is one or it is nothing! How you survived that night without absorbing that! Stood in the smoking ruins of King’s Landing still believing that it matters which family rules what parcel of land…”

“It matters,” she ground out, “because this is _our home_ , Jon. It mattered to Robb. To mother and father. To all the Starks who came before. Parts of me were sacrificed that I’ll never reclaim holding on to it.”

“Aye. And I’m sorry for that. But as you said—you’ll never reclaim them—and you sold out your living family sustaining the ambitions of your dead one trying to fill that void.”

Sansa gazed down her nose at him, sidelong. “You’re still here. You’re free and alive. _I_ did that. _The North_ made certain of that.”

Now it was Jon who gazed out unseeingly across the throng of the hall. “Aye. As I’d done for you with the Watch and the Free Folk. But family loyalty shouldn’t be an ongoing tit-for-tat exchange. You owed me more than that. I thought I could trust you with the rest. I was wrong. But _she’s_ learnt from my mistake. She _didn’t_ trust you and she could easily make you regret knowing.”

“Why would she?”

Jon looked at her dubiously, “You and she haven’t shared much in the way of common understanding at any point in your lives—barring Petyr Baelish. You think that’s likely to change now?”

“We have someone else in common. Someone I imagine we’d both like to see succeed.”

“Aye. Maybe,” Jon conceded, “But success looks different to you both. Always has. Bear that in mind, Sansa.” Taking a final swallow of his ale, Jon rose and retired. Sansa remained in the hall for some time, taking stock.

~

### Rena’s Room: Sometime Before Midnight

“It was so…raw,” Hart was sitting on the hearthrug of Rena’s room. She’d taken one look at him, flushed and flustered at her door, and beckoned him inside, glancing warily down the corridor to make certain no one would see. 

“They knew I was there…and they _didn’t_ …all at the same time. It was like the air had filled with lightning and that smell…the one that comes after it strikes?” Seeing her lack of comprehension, he’d waved the analogy away, “You’ll know it when you’ve spent some time in the south. I didn’t know _people_ could spontaneously generate that kind of energy.”

Rena’s cheeks warmed. She could feel the lingering effects of it spiraling off of him, permeating the air. She might not comprehend the electrifying might of a lightning storm—thundersnow and blizzards being far more common in the North than lightning—but _he_ was making her feel that way _right now_ coming into her room half-dressed from the forge in the middle of the night. The scent of him tickling her nostrils, making her clench her thighs together under her nightdress. If he wasn’t so distracted…

She moved from where she’d perched on the edge of her bed to sit across from him on the floor, tucking her knees underneath her as she reached out a hand to take up the knife he’d been spinning in lazy circles on the stone of the hearth. “Where’d this come from?” she asked, chewing on the inside of her cheek as she examined the sigil inscribed in the hilt.

Hart blew out a breath, “Da made it, apparently. Part of a gift he gave her the day I was born. I’m meant to return it to her if I decide I’m ever comfortable having her known more widely as my mother…I think? That’s what it sounded as if she meant, anyhow. She gave one back to Da, too—with similar terms.” Hart shivered remembering the force with which his father had driven the Baratheon knife into the workbench. “Think he already did—return it I mean,” he added. He shivered again, despite the warmth from the fire.

Rena stood, pulled one of the furs from her bed, and then knelt, wrapping it around his bare shoulders. He smiled at her, tired but grateful. “I’m sorry I woke you,” he apologized, “I just didn’t want to be alone inside my head with all these thoughts after…all that.”

Rena smiled at him softly, “You never need to apologize for wanting me—,” realizing what her words sounded like, she paused. Hart might have been distracted, but he wasn’t _that_ oblivious. She watched as his eyebrow rose, suggestively. She pivoted, “—for seeking me out, when you have need of me, love. I don’t know if I’ve any answers for you, or even how I can really help, but I’d always rather you come talk to me than struggle alone.” She leaned forward and kissed him gently. He tasted of metal-smoke and cider and he shuddered slightly before grasping her waist and pulling her bodily into his lap, wrapping the tails of the furs about her too—sheltering them both. 

His lips roamed hers and she answered readily, leaning into him, fingers tracing the lines of his jaw, issuing an agreeable squeak when he pulled her closer. One hand behind her head, he tilted, pressing her down onto the rug. She opened her legs, and he stretched himself out between them, settling over her. One hand cupped her cheek, the other traced her side. She wasn’t wearing anything under her nightshift. When his fingertips grazed the side of her breast, his breathing hitched and his lips paused against hers. He palmed her through her shift and she gasped against his mouth, arching into his touch. She was so, so soft. Trussed up as her breasts usually were, he’d always thought them firm, but here, unbound, they spilled out of his palm as he clutched her. 

His cock was hardening. Gods! He wanted her. She shifted underneath him and from the gasp that escaped her and the way her eyes suddenly widened he could tell she felt it too. He wanted nothing more than to go with it—drown out the rest of the night—of the last several weeks—with the scent, the taste, the feel of her. But he hesitated. Pulled himself back. Sat up adjusting himself and rolled on his hip to lay down behind her, wrapping his arms around her, pulling the furs over them both and kissing her neck softly. Her face turned to his and she captured his lips again. This position wasn’t a great deal better: he could still feel himself, achingly hard, her backside pressing against him. But it was so sweet: holding her warm, soft body; tasting her lips; breathing her breath. Hart succumbed to the tender familiarity of her and allowed his mind to focus only on the feel of his mouth on hers. Steadying him. Gentling him. Lulling him into such peace that he was able, eventually, to sleep.

~

### The Forge: Sometime Before Midnight

It was never entirely clear to Gendry, afterwards, when Hart left the forge. To his eternal chagrin, he’d somehow forgotten about his son completely.

He’d pulled Arya tightly against him and she’d grinned against his lips and then he’d chuckled against hers and everything was suddenly right in the world. Her arms wound themselves around his neck and he’d lifted her—her legs wrapping themselves around his hips. He’d turned, balancing her against the workbench he’d been using, barring her body with his own should anyone happen past. She’d unbuckled her own belt, but he’d shucked her coat and reached for the lacing on her breeches before breaking apart from her, chest heaving for air, and asking permission with his eyes—she was _real_ , wasn’t she? 

She’d held his gaze, gripped the bottom of her shirt and yanked it off over her head, casting it away into the shadows. He’d reached for her then, hungrily, hands cupping her face, his mouth demanding. She purred, her back arching, skin to skin, as his teeth nipped at the place on her neck that sent spirals of heat rocketing to her core. This felt right. So right. His hands on her body. Warm and strong with the just the right amount of roughness that caught at her in all the right ways. She pulled him back to her, from between her breasts, kissing him urgently. The beard was a new sensation. She liked it. It made her skin tingle—left evidence behind that he’d _been_ there. She ran one hand along his jaw, scratching gently as his tongue tangled with hers. He groaned into her mouth as he pressed closer against her. 

She tongued the line of his collarbone as she cupped his arse, bringing him even closer, rubbing the hardness of him between her thighs. A low-pitched moan pulled itself from her throat. The tang of metal and salt-sweat mingled with the drying bite of soot-smoke on her tongue. Her fingers traced his chest and he rumbled pleasantly. When her fingers found his nipples and tweaked them, the rumble became an outright growl and she felt his teeth latch into the skin of her neck. She gasped. One hand trailed down his stomach, found his navel and then went lower… 

He pulled away, then, and knelt to unlace her boots. She leaned back, bracing herself, as he tugged each boot free. He was breathing heavily, eyes hooded with desire, surveying her from where he knelt on the floor. She cocked an eyebrow at him, waiting.

“Take your own bloody pants off,” he said, rising, his voice low and tinged with something like humour. 

“You first.”

“No.” Suddenly he was every inch the lord he’d spent the past sixteen years learning how to be. Determined. Forceful. Unrelenting. Despite his state of undress and the soot. It was as if he’d thrown ice over the fire racing in her veins. 

“No?” she repeated, stupidly. Their whole lives he’d only once before ever said no to her. Questioned her, corrected her, disputed her, challenged her, but in the end, he’d always picked up a sword, shouldered his hammer—or _their son_ —and followed where she’d led. Except that one time—in the Brotherhood’s cavern. 

“I want you, Arya,” he declared, “I want this. I will always want you and this. But you made me wait. You made me hunger and want without any reprieve for nearly seventeen years. I need to know that this time this means what I think it means.” His fathomless sapphire eyes pierced her like a dagger to the heart, “Not just that you want me. This time you know what it’s like. So do I. I know what _it’s all_ like. The having and the not having. I need having to mean something. So, if you take those off…”

She’d hopped off the table, and shimmied—rather artfully—out of her breeches and small clothes. Reaching out, she’d taken his hand in hers again, this time bringing it to her lips. She kissed the tips of each of his fingers, slowly, sucking them one by one into her mouth, swirling her tongue around them and releasing them before tracing his knuckles down her chest, between her breasts, over her stomach, and, finally, guiding his largest middle finger right inside the heat of her. It was a shock, and the wetness of her even more so. Gendry’s eyes had opened wide as she’d moved his hand down her body but as she pressed him deep, he closed them, breathing out heavily through his nose. She wasn’t playing _fair_. 

“Look at me,” she commanded, her voice barely above a whisper. He took a deep steadying breath. It didn’t help. He could _smell_ her arousal. Could _feel_ the thundering pulse of her from the inside. He opened his eyes, drinking her in, eyes darkened with desire. Punctuating her words, she manipulated his wrist, plunging first one, and then another, of his fingers inside her: 

“I want you.”  
_(thrust)_  
“I want this.”  
_(thrust)_  
“I will always…”  
_(thrust)_  
“…want you.”  
_(thrust)_  
“And **this**.”  
_(thrust)_

He curled his fingers inside her and the heel of his hand ground itself tight against the mound of her.  
She caught her breath.  
Bit her lip.  
Closed her eyes.  
Whimpered.  
Quivered lightly around him.  
Sighed. Shivered.

With evident reluctance, brought his fingers--dripping--back to her lips, tonguing them clean.  
He sucked in another breath, watching.  
She opened her eyes and pinned him with them in a way that made his will collapse. “It always meant something. I just had to take the long road to put myself back together and figure that out.”

Sweat had broken out on Gendry’s forehead, watching her pleasuring herself with his hand, and he was clenching his jaw so hard he thought his back teeth might disintegrate. His cock felt as if it were no longer flesh, but made instead of Valeryian steel. His breeches were a prison. It was unbearable. Without taking his eyes from hers, he began tearing at the ties of them. The moment his laces were undone, he tore them down, kicking himself free of them. Her grey-eyes widened with clear appreciation. The light was better in the forge than it had been that night in the storeroom. Her lips parted and her tongue darted out, skimming them. In one stride he was back between her thighs, her hair tickling him, the wet-heat of her pressing against him. He groaned.

That long-ago night when the dead were marching and all seemed lost; she’d taken him. Tonight, one hand wrapped around her neck, his thumb pressing into the pulse below her jaw, the other lifting her leg up and clutching at her backside, Gendry took her. Swiftly. Sheathing himself to the root with one grunting thrust, Arya cried out at the unrelenting fullness of him inside her; buried so deeply that neither were sure where one ended and the other began. The violent sweetness of it made her heart sing. With each thrust of his hips, her legs scrambled for purchase against him, trying to hold him to her, keep him tight within her, hands gripping his broad shoulders, nails biting into his upper arms as he pounded into her. With a frustrated growl, he lifted one of her legs higher, looping it over his shoulder and her eyes rolled back. Her back arched and she clutched at the table; it thumped beneath her on the cobbled floor with the force of his movements. He filled her so completely. Little wonder her fingers had never felt like enough after having once known him. It hadn’t taken long—the anticipation of him—the scent of him—the way he completed each thrust with a jolt of his hips, grinding his pubic bone against hers each time he bottomed out. Her breath hitched and as his knuckles tugged at her nipple his touch triggered something primal in her and she cried out shamelessly as she crested, the sound echoing off the stone of the forge. 

A haze of disbelieving awe passed over Gendry’s features as he watched her fall apart—heard her soul-rending cry of satisfaction—felt the fluttering grip and pulse of her around him. As that new sensation subsided, he slammed into her several times more before pulling out and letting his seed spurt over her belly with a groan; his forehead pressed against hers; his gaze a fiery, unwavering challenge. As their breathing eased, he took a step back. Arya languidly traced a finger through the mess he’d left on her, before bringing her fingers to her mouth, tasting him. His breath caught and held, enthralled. Everything about her was more daringly beautiful than he remembered.  
Eventually, breaths slowing and skin cooling, Arya sat up, grinned at him, and gestured towards her discarded shirt. Her thighs were trembling; she daren’t try to stand up just yet. Gendry bent down, retrieved it, and handed it to her. “Thought you’d not chance getting a second babe on me straight away?” she asked, swiping the balled-up shirt over her stomach and chest, wiping away the residual seed, “Gallant of you,” she acknowledged, “But unnecessary.” It was one of things she’d troubled herself with that evening: nicking enough moon tea from the maester’s cell while he was out so if things _had_ gone in this direction—as she’d hoped against hope they _might_ —she’d be prepared.

Her flippancy brought a sudden fury raging through his blood and clouding his vision the same way his desire for her had only moments ago. Terrible possibilities lanced their way across his brain. With a loud _thwump_ , he shook out his leather breeches and practically jumped into them, before sitting down heavily, to lace his boots—hurt and misuse rippling in the air around him. Bitingly, he demanded, “That where you’ve been since you got here? Closeted with Sansa discussing heirs for the bloody North?” 

Arya gauged his reaction, perplexed. She’d meant it in jest—a nod to the past. But it was a past they hadn’t yet worked through and her jest was obviously a poor one. “I…” she started, but the look he nailed her with halted the words in her throat. 

“You coming back means she can change the game from ‘We’ll just claim the pair of you wed years ago’ to ‘Scratch that itch again if you like—Gendry’s soft enough to want you—he can act stud for the North even if you don’t want the man. The first one turned out well enough.’ I’m sure Sansa’s salivating at the opportunity to raise the next!” He glared at her, his hands flexing at his sides and his chest heaving. 

The words were ugly. Uglier than anything she’d ever imagined him saying, ever. Arya realized several things at all once: how much time had passed that he’d learned to understand the game everyone played (while, thankfully, still scorning it himself); how _very much_ she’d hurt him—made him question her motives and intentions; how deeply she’d taken his ability to understand her—for them to understand one another—for granted. The shock of such a realization coming so quickly after she’d felt the triumph of _oneness_ with him brought tears to her eyes. Doing her best to conceal them, she dropped the soiled shirt on the workbench before collecting her smallclothes and shimmying into them. People were more complex than direwolves, she reminded herself. He was pack, but maybe it was because he wasn’t a wolf at all that this would be harder with him. Turning to face him, she frowned, trying to figure out what to say that wouldn’t make his temper blow sky-high; the veins in his neck were throbbing. Struggling into her breeches, she cocked her head at him and offered quietly, “Wouldn’t surprise me in the slightest that Sansa has schemes enough for everyone in the North and the Six Kingdoms as well. But I wasn’t with her—haven’t even seen her yet—so I’m not privy to any of them. As for my piss poor joke… we’ve access to moon tea this time. That’s all I meant,” she concluded, her voice conciliatory.

Gendry’s shoulders sagged. Unlike last time when nothing seemed to matter because they’d known they wouldn’t survive, he’d meant to signal that he’d learned something—that her independence mattered—that he wasn’t trying or interested in trapping her inadvertently into anything she didn’t want. Her jest felt as if she were casting that consideration up at him—dismissing the years he’d spent raising their child—as if Hart’s very existence were something they’d both rather have escaped—when he’d never been any such thing—at least for him. He couldn’t articulate these mangled thoughts, however, so instead he demanded sullenly, “Where were you then?” He wouldn’t look at her—was sitting with his elbows resting on his thighs, hands folded together between his knees—staring fixedly at a line between the cobbles of the floor just beyond.

Arya leaned back against the workbench, her arms crossed over her breasts, expression grim. She hadn’t properly thought through the strategy of using her shirt for cleanup. She’d couldn’t put it back on now. She felt…vulnerable. It wasn’t a feeling she liked. It made her feel prickly and on edge when that’s the last thing she needed to be right now. When she didn’t answer, Gendry chanced a look at her. Lips pressed together, he rose, strode to a hook on the wall, retrieved his own shirt, and tossed it to her. She caught it, gratefully, a slight smile lifting the corners of her mouth as she threw it over her head. It smelled of him. It was huge—might as well have been a dress—the leather ties at the neck were loose and it slipped to the side, revealing one shoulder; the hem cascaded to her knees. She gathered the fabric up, tying it into a knot above her hip.

He’d resumed his earlier position, but was now looking up at her, waiting on an answer. She blew out a breath, “I’ve never liked all that…stuff,” she waved a hand, “Pageantry. Being on display to everyone. So I circled around while they paraded through Winter Town, slipped in by foot at the North Gate and watched them come in the East Gate from inside Bran’s Broken Tower. Saw Hart disappearing, after, with his lady. Followed them into the godswood for a time. Neither saw me—I kept my distance,” she hastened to explain at his frown, “But I was curious and wanted a look at her. How’d she get--?” Arya brushed her fingers against her own temple, indicating Rena’s scar. “Hart never mentioned it.”

Patently she _had_ been watching them—she’d seen _something_ of Rena at the very least. Gendry cleared his throat before answering, “Don’t think he even sees it any more, to be honest. Her brother, Bran, dared her to shoot close—to pick a pear off his head. When she managed it, he dared her to let him try the same, but his skill wasn’t quite up to hers. She told me the process of healing it made her interested in healing generally and made him practice harder. He’s an excellent shot now and she’s been midwifing here and studying with their Maester. It’s how they crossed paths initially.”

A gleam of appreciation danced in Arya’s eyes; eager, she inquired, “She can hold her own then? You think them a good match?” 

Gendry nodded, his face relaxing and brightening. The fight seemed to have left him. Arya thought that a good sign. But when his eyes met hers again, he grimaced, and the light fled. He shook his head like a horse shooing flies. Her interest in their lad was gratifying and welcome—but distracting. He wouldn’t let himself be distracted this time. Shouldn’t have, earlier. But he’d waited so long for her and they’d both _wanted it_ so much. There was more to this than want, though. Bigger questions loomed about the immediate future. “Must have learned something of her yourself, if you spied on them the whole afternoon?” he observed, redirecting the conversation.

“Not the whole afternoon…just until they…” her cheeks flushed suddenly and her eyes darted away from his, “needed privacy. Then I went to the crypts. To see…my family…” 

Gendry’s mouth had dropped open. He sputtered. He realized he had no principles to stand on; he’d fathered the boy without being wed on a pile of grain sacks. Had just ravished the lad’s mother again atop a wooden workbench in full view and hearing of anyone who might enter or pass by the forge. But he and Hart had always been so close. Discussed everything. He’d thought the lad would tell him if…

“I don’t think _that’s_ where it was headed,” Arya’s voice broke into his thoughts, “He told me they hadn’t yet, on the ride down here from the Wall. Said something about you saying the right time was important?” Her quizzical, sardonic eyebrow was back and it matched her tone. Gendry could only gawk at her. He remembered saying something like that to the boy…he felt his cheeks flush with embarrassment. “Handing out some ‘do as I say not as I do’ advice, there, were you? Regardless,” she continued airily, “I had no interest in staying around to find out.” She shrugged, “Fair’s fair, I suppose…he barely escaped without getting an eyeful of us.”

Gendry wheezed and made a choked, incoherent sound; his face had gone an alarming shade of purple. Arya moved as if to pound him on the back but he waved her away. Her very presence had displaced all thoughts of their son from his mind and it appalled him. What must the lad be thinking? He rose from the bench. He had to speak with the boy…for several reasons. 

Arya’s hand grasped his arm, stalling him. “It’s late. No point going after him now. He’s likely abed. Speak to him in the morning. Besides…”

Gendry eyed her, warily, “Besides _what_? Why’re you back, Arya? Why’d you come North first? Why not go to Bran? Or find us in the Stormlands? If what you say you want me to believe is true, why wouldn’t you have come to me—to us—there first?”

She huffed and turned away, crossing her arms. When she turned back to him her eyes were flinty. “Is it Lording that’s done a number on you? Or Sansa?” She could tell by the way his eyes shifted when she said her sister’s name that it was the latter. “Whatever schemes she’s concocted she’s made you question everything that was ever understood between us. She’s always been good at appearances…manipulating them. Making things seem one way or another depending upon who she’s speaking with and where her goals lie.” She heaved a sigh before explaining, “I came North because that’s the first cargo route that paid my ship’s crew to make the crossing from Braavos. Going to Jon made sense because whether he’d wed someone or not, however he’d rebuilt his life, I knew he’d welcome me. I wanted to understand where things stood…with you…before imposing myself. You might have wed someone else. Had a castle full of tiny Baratheons.” She looked up at him meaningfully, “I’m here because I knew I needed to be; I’d healed enough to withstand whatever coming home meant. I meant your words: I _do_ want this. All of this. With you. On some level I always did. But I didn’t know myself enough to be anything like what you deserved then. It wouldn’t have been kind to just let you have that Arya. It wouldn’t even have been a decision that I’d _made_ …” she could see that she’d lost him—he didn’t understand. He was listening, paying close attention, but his brow had furrowed and his mouth gaped open as it did whenever she’d rushed too far ahead for him. She paused and then tried again, deliberately, “You have to know who you are before you can decide who you’ll be. I didn’t know anymore…if I’d ever _really_ known at all. I was a little girl with a wolf dreaming of swords and adventure, and then I was Arry, and Nan, and so many others—putting myself away—hiding! And if I’d gone with you then it wouldn’t have been a decision I was making—it would have been an abstention—an abnegation of a decision based on the babe in my belly. One that would likely have broken us both—broken all _three_ of us—when you’d eventually realize I was hollow—only going through the motions of living.”

“And now?” 

She thought carefully. Complete honesty was important, “Hart showed me your letter.” Gendry’s eyes widened and the tips of his ears turned red. His mouth opened as if to speak but Arya hastened to add, “At least—he showed me a part of it. I don’t know how long it truly was, but I saw the final paragraphs. I know what you said you were willing to give up to see me—to be with me. It’s what convinced me I should come. I just need to know—are you willing to do that at Hart’s expense? To risk him and the life he’s started to build just because you and I feel… _this_?” It was a delicate thing they’d started spinning with this conversation, but it had to be asked. She could see his determination, the acceptance and regret of it forming behind his eyes. “Back then it maybe _could_ have been just about you and I. But it’s about more than that now, isn’t it?”

Gendry nodded, slowly, his blue eyes holding hers. It made his heart ache that she felt—and so quickly—the same concern for their son’s well-being that he’d always known. 

She reached out for his hands, folding her own into his, “I want you. I crossed the world wanting you. But I owe Hart his own life, however he chooses to form it. And the choices we make for ourselves have repercussions for him. If I’d chosen differently—been well and stable enough to stay—things might have been different. But they weren’t and I wasn’t and I can’t change that. I’m Sansa’s named heir and all of Westeros knows it. Hart wants Storm’s End and the Stormlands. You’ve given him that. I’d like to give him the chance to let me give him whatever he’d have of me. Maybe that’s nothing more than waterdancing lessons. Maybe it’s more. But I don’t want my presence to become a demand that he be something or take on something he doesn’t want. Or that might bring him harm.”

It made sense. Gendry _knew_ it made sense: it was how he’d always felt himself. That they were on precisely the same page about this floored him. It was incredible. But it was such a lot to trust in, after all this time. It perturbed him how at ease, how confident, he’d been about his feelings for her and his belief in her while she was gone, and how convoluted it all felt now that she was finally standing here in front of him. The practicalities of her being present were far more complicated than her absence. In constructing life without her, life with her—no matter how desired—posed challenges. Gendry could see she wasn’t the spent and shattered person who’d sent him away clutching their newborn son all those years ago. Now, she was unguarded but measured, forthright and willful, but certainly more whole and positively motivated than he’d ever known her. With a shock he realized: I’ve only ever known her—loved her—trying to survive. Not _living_. Neither of us were living then. That’s what she’s been trying to say. Loving _this_ Arya would be different. It had to be. They had someone else’s life to preserve now. But she wanted to work at that _with him_. Not alone. Not without him. _Together_. With that awareness came a newfound calm. 

Arya caught the moment he relaxed. Her heart fluttered suddenly, hopeful. He shook his head at her and admitted, “You’re right. I want you as much as I ever have, but I won’t hazard him. It’ll take some time to figure out. How to make it all work. For all of us.”

“We’re agreed then? Just as it was? With no one else knowing?” she asked, her hands fastening upon the crook of his arms, pulling herself ever so slightly closer to him, gaze darting between his eyes and his lips.

He twisted his forearms under hers, grasping her elbows, effectively halting her advance. “Agreed. But we keep nothing from Hart. And that’s only until we—or he—figures out how to proceed. I won’t hide my feelings for you forever, Arya. I’ve done enough of that. Besides...you always said I wasn’t a quick enough liar to get away with it.” He leaned down and kissed her thoroughly. When she was gasping against him again, he pulled back, a soft smile on his lips and a question in his voice, “If you’ve not seen Sansa, you’ve not secured bedchambers of your own, then?” 

It was like looking into molten silver, the way her irises shone up at him as she cocked her chin, “You offering to share?” 

He grinned at her suddenly, “We share a heart, milady. A bed seems inconsequential in comparison.”

“That’s your final answer then?” Arya asked, her voice quavering with repressed emotion, “No matter what? Whatever Hart decides for himself, _you’re_ sure?”

“You took your pants off and I’ve given you back your knife,” Gendry’s mouth slanted into a genuine and self-deprecating grin, “Might not be the exchange of cloaks most use but…,” he shrugged, “We don’t negotiate terms like proper highborns, do we?”

Arya’s wide smile matched his own. She stood on her toes to press a quick kiss to his lips, “No,” she answered, “But that’s because we’re—neither of us—proper highborns. We’re us. Not anybody else.” His heart nearly burst. 

Winterfell was still and dark around them as Gendry led her by the hand, furtive and silent, to the rooms Sansa had assigned him. 

~

### Gendry’s Rooms: Well After Midnight

“Was that true?” Arya asked some hours later, her head pillowed on Gendry’s chest. “Truly?”

“What?” he asked, his voice raspy and a little groggy, his fingers tracing swirls into her arm and shoulder, making her nerve-endings tingle in their wake.

“What you said before—in the forge—about me being the only one?” her voice was small and quiet—uncertain still—even amid the aftermath of their passion.

She felt his chest vibrate under her cheek as he expelled a self-effacing chuckle. “Over the years some tried to make me see sense. To see someone—anyone—else. More than one lady waylaid me in shadowy corners on feast days after having—or appearing to have had—too much to drink.” He snorted, “One thought I’d see her charms more clearly if she fell off a horse into a stream while out hawking if I was forced to rescue her.”

“Don’t imagine _that_ worked,” Arya smirked; she could practically see in her mind’s eye the disgust on his face at the idea of any full-grown person expecting rescue from something so trivial. But she couldn’t help adding, her voice tentative, “Did it?” Old insecurities had somehow resurfaced with her arrival at Winterfell. But she was stronger now. She’d give them voice so they wouldn’t haunt her—couldn’t be misinterpreted.

His lips brushed her forehead, “No,” he murmured, “It didn’t. Could never see anyone but you. Even in my dreams.”

She shivered, toes curling with the delight of his words.

“What about you?” Gendry asked. He wasn’t sure he really wanted to know, each moment between them holding the potential for combustion on a number of fronts, but felt immediately reassured when he felt her head shake.

“No. I did try…once…,” she admitted. Gendry held his breath, on tenterhooks again. “But it felt wrong so quickly—he’d barely touched my breast before I pulled away—ended it. He wasn’t… _you_.” Gendry let himself exhale again. 

A flicker of a smile pulled at the corners of her mouth, feeling his breath of relief. Idiot. Her fingers caught his wrist, pulling his strong, callused hand down, spreading his fingers over her breast, encouraging him to squeeze, firmly. The softness of her skin under his palm was irresistible. He palmed her, his thumb brushing around and over her nipple. She sighed with pleasure and snuggled closer, “This,” she whispered, squeezing, her hand over his again, punctuating her words, “ _This_ feels right.”

~

She owned to herself that she was going to have to ask. Again. Her mind wouldn’t let it go. He was dozing beside her, rumbling occasionally from time to time, as she lay wakeful. Lying with him energized her, and she found her mind racing over and reliving each moment of the night, spinning ahead into tomorrow and on into what might come and back again rather than settling and allowing her to sleep. Her body felt pleasantly used and rather boneless, and she found herself wishing that her mind could let everything go as willingly. 

The crux of the matter was: he’d gotten…better. For one, he’d made certain she’d peaked around him before letting himself go…even that first desperate time in the forge. And each time since. Seemed single-mindedly determined upon ensuring she wailed her release to the rafters before he’d allow his own climax to overwhelm him. That wasn’t something you learned by _not_ letting ladies have their way with you in shadowy corners. She’d wanted this, wanted more and more of this for as long as he’d give it to her, and she didn’t want another fight. But, after all these years this was all so…precarious, and to build anything on solid ground, she had to _know_ …

“You’ve gotten…better…at this,” she tilted her hips into him, underscoring her meaning. He cracked his eyes open instantly. A grunt of surprise followed as he registered the wetness of her pressing against his thigh. His cock jumped. Self-satisfaction bloomed across his features as he fully took in her meaning. Vainglorious idiot. Tracing her fingers down the lines of his abdomen, she grasped hold of him and began stroking, lightly. He groaned, his hips moving upwards of their own accord, one hand thrown over his brow. His movement brought friction, once again, against her core. She wanted it…oh, how much she wanted more of it…but she forced herself to tip her hips away—to pull back.  
Gendry’s head turned and bent to hers, lips pressing lazy kisses along her jaw until he captured her mouth with his own. Suddenly, the hand that had been fondling him seized, gripping him tighter. A strangled yelp yanked itself out of his throat, reverberating off her teeth and lips. He stopped kissing her and pulled back, blue eyes wide and startled—no longer remotely drowsy. The hand that had been cradling her face lowered and clamped itself over hers, “Wha--?”

“You’ve learned things you didn’t know when we lay together that night. How?” Her tone was deadly serious and her eyes gleamed darkly in the firelight from the hearth. 

Gendry resisted the urge to laugh, incredulously, in her face. After all this time apart—not knowing for certain if she was even alive for him to ever have again—lusting after her fruitlessly night after night—she was _jealous_. She hadn’t been here to have him—to want him—to be with him—but she was riddled with jealousy that he might have sought out someone else. Which was absurd. He’d only ever wanted her. He wasn’t _blind_ , certainly. There were lovely looking women in the world—lovely and dangerous as an unfamiliar weapon you’d never wielded—that you didn’t know the weight and balance of. He’d admired plenty objectively. Even those three he’d kissed ages and ages ago—long before he’d known it was only her that could make him want. He’d tried with them because they’d instigated it and it had seemed like the expected thing. The thing he was supposed to want. If he were completely honest, the fact that he had tried back then was a small part of the reason he’d not felt the need to try later as a Lord. And beyond all that: he’d _known_ she was jealous of the Red Woman—both as a child the day he’d been sold away from her and that night she’d questioned him before the battle. Arya—his Stark wolf—was dangerously, lethally loyal. He’d accepted it. A part of him _reveled_ in it. She could have had anyone—not waited to have him herself—if she weren’t. He’d long ago realized _that_ , even if _she_ hadn’t. And he knew she didn’t forgive. The list she’d recited under her breath each night he’d slept by her side was evidence enough of that. He’d never wanted to risk it. That he’d been proven right so quickly…

“Why are you _grinning_ like that?” she demanded, her fingers tightening on him ever so slightly. _That_ wiped the grin off his face immediately.

“Think you’ll maybe want to be able to make use of that again, soon, milady,” he replied, “once I explain…as best I can, anyway. Might want to leave off strangling him in the meantime.”

She regarded him suspiciously but he cocked an eyebrow at her and waited patiently. After a few moments her grip relaxed and he caught her hand in his own, lacing his fingers into hers and bringing them to rest against his chest. The worst she could manage from this position was tweaking a few chest hairs. He could live with the loss of those.  
She was studying him, one eyebrow raised daringly, her chin resting on his chest.

“Out with it then,” she demanded, “how’d you get so…”

“Good?” That shit-eating grin was back. 

She scowled up at him.

Mulling it over, he ventured, “Wishful thinking be enough of an answer for you?” Her teeth fastened on his nipple. Right. He’d forgotten about the teeth. He sucked in a breath as she nipped at him. “Okay! Alright! Truce! It won’t make any more sense to you than it does to me, Arya, but I had this one…dream. Vivid stuff. About you. Being with you.” He chanced a doubtful glance at her. She was eyeing him avidly, no longer chewing on him, teeth fixed in her lower lip instead. The dangerous aura she’d been projecting had mellowed into mere…interest. And she wasn’t making derisive faces like he’d expected she would. That was promising. He went on, “I mean, I dreamed about you all the time. Daydreams, fantasies, remembering. I don’t mean _that_ ,” he clarified, “this one was…different.”

“How?” She shifted, folding her hands under her chin, and gazed up at him, one eyebrow lifted. 

He smoothed his thumb over the arc of it, wistfully, before answering, “It wasn’t anything like what we’d done together before. I mean…” he blushed, “I was _in you_ and you were beneath me and we’d…not ever done things that way. But everything was warm and unhurried—weightless—like we were floating, but bound up together in furs or something all at the same time.” He couldn’t look at her, talking this way. It was embarrassing…sharing the intensity of that dream with her. In spite of everything else between them and the fact that they were sprawled, naked, in his bed. It felt as if he were peeling back the onion-skin of his heart and laying it bare for her to critique. Eyes firmly on the hearth, but a flush rising to his cheeks, he pressed on, “You cried out and it was unlike any sound I’ve ever heard you make: felt it in my bones. Sleeping beside you on the road all those years, I knew the sound of your tears, your bad dreams, your thoughts happening so loudly they kept you watchful. Like they were just now,” he acknowledged, his eyes returning to hers briefly, the side of his mouth tugging upward. “I knew your fight-sounds and battle-cry. After our night here, I knew the gasp and moan of you mounting me; the sounds you’d made when I’d tongue your neck, lick the hollow at your throat, hold your breast. I knew the sounds of you striving to bring Hart into the world. I knew all your sounds, Arya. And _that one_ was unlike anything I’d ever heard. Until tonight. That first time. In the forge.” He gazed at her longingly, with a simple, sincere profundity, driving this last point home, “Made my blood prickle as if I’d heard the whistling roar of a perfectly-formed sword through the air, hearing you like that. It made that dream…real.”

Any proper lady should have felt mortified, she thought. Instead, she felt tears welling at the corners of her eyes, a thrill rising in her blood, and—most oddly—an overwhelming peace settling over her. “When?” she whispered, her cheeks redder than they had been and her eyes shining, “Can you remember when you had this dream?”

He frowned at her. That didn’t seem like a relevant question, but he cast his mind back. “There was a full moon that felt like it was…watching me…when I woke. Hart had been here in the North for a spell. Oldtown hadn’t declared summer yet, but it was warm… Must have been…oh…little over a year ago?” 

Suddenly she was straddling him, her hands cradling his face, kissing him with as much passion as if they hadn’t already spent themselves three or four times. He lost himself in the scent and taste of her—in the sensation of her fingers in his beard and hair—of her tongue searching his mouth, tangling against his own. Wrapping his arm tightly around her back, he rolled them over, so that she was, as in the dream, beneath him. He broke their kiss, fingers brushing her hair out of her face, blue eyes searching hers, questioning.  
Arya understood what he wasn’t asking. Her thumb tracing his lips, fingers tickling his jaw, she affirmed, “I dreamed you too. The same way. The same night, I think. It was my final trial of the Moongarden—loving you.” With a tilt of her chin she skimmed her nose against his, chasing after his lips. 

He rested a hand on her brow, gentling her, eyes serious. There hadn’t been time enough yet to hear about where she’d been or what had healed her—what made her ready to come home.

“Loving me’s a trial?” he asked, a frown forming, as he began to roll away from her. 

Arya clutched after him, “Not like that! Not the way you’re thinking it!” Cradling his face, she locked eyes with him and he stilled, one hand pressing against the mattress, not allowing himself to be pulled back over her. “It was a test of my ability to be one with myself. Like you, I thought when they called it a trial it meant bloodshed, torture or pain. But it wasn’t about that at all. It was about _being_ —succumbing to the world and yourself _inside_ the world—finding peace within it. I’d been alone—the gods alone know how many hours—before you came to me—before I felt _you_ with me. And I realized then that you were always with me—wherever I went—that I loved you—had always loved you. And it was the most important, magnificent thing I’d ever felt— _ever_ —until being with you tonight.”

He thought he understood what she was saying. “It was real? Somehow? Across all that distance we…? And…you love me?” he clarified, disbelievingly. 

She nodded, kissing him tenderly in reply and she felt him give in—accepting the strangeness of it—smiling against her lips. She smiled back and an incredulous chuckle passed between them. Wrapping her legs around his waist she shifted herself beneath him, one hand drifting to his lower back, encouraging him forward. His cock skimmed her and she exhaled, tilting herself, rubbing herself against the hardness of him. Reaching one hand down between them, he tapped himself against her gently, admiring the way her eyes fluttered shut and the skin of her neck flushed, as he teased her. Flicking his gaze upwards to hers again, he saw her nod again, biting her lip and pressed onwards, rocking into her slowly…torturously slow. She gasped his name, neck arching back against the bed. 

“It was real,” he whispered again, blissful, his lips at her neck, hips pulling back until she felt nearly empty and then filling her again, slow and slower…making her moan and writhe. Each time she struggled against him—striving for speed—he slowed himself down further and a whine of protest leapt from between her lips. “Shhh,” he breathed, propping himself on one arm above her so that he could caress her—trace her breasts, her flanks, her scars; his fingertips sending sparks over her skin as his cock continued its slow infiltration. He’d press himself into her—shallowly —four times—before surging forward on the fifth—and holding himself there—pressed tightly against her with a jerk of his hips upward. Each shallow pulse of him inside her was a series of gasps and each deep thrust an exhaled sigh that he drank from her lips as if it were the only thing sustaining him. In time, his pace quickened, her body undulating underneath him—rising to meet his and her insides clutching after him—as if trying to hold him there. Her arms tightened around his shoulders and he could feel the pant of her breath across his ear, the bite of her teeth, the rasp of her nails along his spine. She was all around him, absorbing all his senses and although that dream-time might have been real—as real a connection as distance, the gods and the moon could make manifest— _this_ , all of this, was infinitely better. 

A rasping keen was building in her throat; she was so close; her legs were trembling. His hips stuttered against her and he groaned her name. “Please,” she demanded, “Keep loving me Gendry. Please. Don’t ever stop. You need to keep loving me.” Breathing hard, hanging on by the thinnest, tiniest of threads, he looked straight into her eyes and vowed, “I’ll never stop loving you.” Pressing his thumb above where they were joined, he thrust home once more, taking her mouth in his own and swallowing the cry that tore itself from the depths of her being as she came hard around him. He didn’t let himself go and in moments he was swallowing another of her cries, feeling the massage of her body pull and caress him. He wasn’t certain how much longer he could hold his own release at bay, but he kept moving, and when she bit her lip a third time and he felt her fluttering around him again, her usual cry strangling itself in open-mouthed silence, tears seeping down her cheeks and her eyes full of stars—he spent himself hard inside her with a triumphant guttural roar.

The solid weight of him on top of her made Arya feel cocooned and secure…and she needed it. For some reason beyond her understanding, she couldn’t stop crying—was shaking silently—weeping. Her hands clutched his backside, trying to keep him as close and tight inside her as she needed him to be. She could feel the last pulse of his seed and the slow flagging of his cock as her insides continued to quiver against him.

In time, he raised his head from the crook of her neck and, astonished, took in the sight of her. For one panicked moment he thought he might have hurt her. But her expression, despite the tears, was one of utter and complete bliss. One large hand rose to cup her cheek, softly thumbing away her tears. He kissed her tenderly. 

“So we’re clear,” he breathed, flopping onto his back when he could finally muster the strength to lever himself away, “Whatever comes…whatever’s between us…there will never be a time when I stop loving you.” That familiar, boyish, shit-eating grin lighting his face, he concluded, “Only times I’m not physically able to.”

With a stretch that somehow triggered her insides to spasm again with aftershocks of their love—Arya curled herself into his warmth, a deeply satisfied half-smile her only answer. At last, they both slept.

~

### Rena’s Rooms ~ Shortly After Dawn

The quantity of guests meant overnight shifts for some of the servants, should anyone require something in the small hours. The maid had been on duty since the moon was high—sometimes dozing off in this corner or that. The sun was rising now, though, and she was looking forward to her own cot. Stealthily opening the door so that she could stoke the fire without waking young Lady Rena, she found her way obstructed by the young couple wrapped together in furs, asleep on the hearthrug. The maid repressed a leer; she’d _thought_ she’d heard someone finding pleasure in the night. Backtracking noiselessly from the room, she decided to leave them undisturbed. The pair would be wed in little more than a day. There was no scandal here. 

Something woke him. He was surrounded by warmth and pleasant softness…except for one part of him. Reaching down to give himself a lazy tug or two, Hart… _ **Realized**_. Bolting upright, he shoved a hand through his hair, cursing. His sudden movement pulled the furs from Rena, exposing her to the coolness of the morning air. The fire had died and no one, it seemed, had yet come to stoke it. Hart struggled to his feet, face aghast. 

“I’m sorry!” he apologized.

Rena sat up, somewhat blearily, her nightshift hanging slightly, one shoulder exposed, a slight frown lining the space between her brows. She looked around the room, then blinked up at him owlishly. “Whatever for, love? We fell asleep.” She yawned. “It was…nice…kissing you…until we slept.”

He goggled at her. She didn’t appear panicked in the slightest. In fact, she seemed peculiarly…pleased with herself. “But…!”

“No one’s seen us. We’re getting wed tomorrow. And we didn’t _do anything_ …in spite of you turning up in the dead of night half-dressed and looking like _that_.” She waved a hand at him in a way that somehow encompassed his abs, toned shoulders, and tousled hair. “You’re lucky I’m a such a good, chaste, honorable lady, my lord. Someone else might have taken advantage.” Her amber eyes were awake now and gleaming at him merrily. 

An involuntary grin lit Hart’s face. “My good, chaste, honorable lady won’t have such scruples tomorrow night?”

She shook her head vigorously, her loose hair flying out around her, replying staunchly, “None whatsoever, love. It wouldn’t be honorable of me. And chastity?” She stuck her tongue out and made a rude sound to answer her own question. “However you choose to appear in our chambers tomorrow, it won’t be kissing that puts us to sleep. In fact…,” she batted her eyelashes at him, “I very much hope there won’t be _any_ sleeping _at all_.”

Bending, he brushed the hair from her temple and kissed the scar that ran from the corner of her eye to her hairline, “I love you,” he said fondly.

“I should hope so. I’m very loveable,” she declared. “Now go,” she instructed, “Before the maid comes.” 

With a final grinning bow, and kiss of her hand, he obeyed. It was only after the door had closed and she was shaking out the furs and clambering back into her bed that Rena noticed the dragonglass pommeled knife still lying on the hearth where he’d forgotten it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know: cue the "duh, duh, duh" music! ;)
> 
> I realize that I worried some of you when I posted chapter 8 that I maybe didn't know where this was going or that the story might lag. I didn't mean to do that to you! *apologizes sincerely and profusely* What I'd meant to do was acknowledge this reunion moment as a definitive marker in the story as it was first envisioned. To be completely clear: Hart and Rena grew and expanded beyond what I'd originally planned and I couldn't in good conscience just make the jump I'd originally intended. Everything is in hand and I hope you'll continue to enjoy where we're headed. Thanks so much for all your ongoing enthusiasm! I know I say it every chapter, but I truly do not take any of your kindness and thoughtful comments for granted.


	10. Upon a Precipice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gendry and Arya contend with what their future might look like.  
> Hart reckons with the fact of his parents and receives pre-wedding advice.  
> Arya makes herself known to Sansa.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a fic in-and-of itself: as much fluff as it is necessary meat & potatoes but I simply couldn't make it any shorter. I tried. Really, I did.   
> Also: all these people converging mean all kinds of conversations. They simply _would_not_ stop talking! lol
> 
> Thank you again to everyone! Hope this next segment meets with your approval.

#### Hart’s Rooms ~ Shortly Before Breakfast

After leaving Rena, he’d returned to the forge. His gift for her lay abandoned on the workbench where he’d left it when he’d hied himself away the night before. With relief, he noted that everything was as he’d left it. He couldn’t help casting a cursory eye over the bench where Da had been working—he could clearly see the scars and punctures left by Arya’s knives the night before. He fished the damaged sword fragments out of the quench barrel, rolled Rena’s instruments into his shirttails, and stole back to his own rooms. 

He’d barely begun washing up from his night spent on Rena’s floor when Da appeared at his door looking abashed.

“Mind if I come in, mate?” 

Unlacing his boots, Hart shook his head without making eye contact. His father closed the door behind him and propped himself against it. Crossing his arms over his chest, Gendry blew out a breath, “I’m sorry about last night. You deserved…I’m not sure what…but you and I…we haven’t even had a chance to properly go over everything. How you even feel about her.” Gendry couldn’t help noticing the fully-made bed behind his son and frowned, “Are you just getting in? Where’ve you been?”

“With Rena,” Hart admitted. Seeing his father’s eyes widen he snapped, “I slept on her floor!” The fact that she’d joined him there was beside the point. Patience entirely frayed, and feeling deeply on-edge about everything, he burst out, “Not that it’s anyone’s business but ours! Why, by all the gods, is everyone so wretchedly nosy about what goes on between us?”

Gendry’s brow rose, silently inquisitive. _He’d_ never asked. He knew Arya _had_. He wondered at who else might’ve. He offered, “Probably because of the circumstances of your own birth, mate. People wonder.”

“If I’m like you, you mean?” Hart demanded, “Or like my grandsire? ‘Cause I want all the things you both claimed to have wanted but never got, and I’m not risking a life with her for the momentary satisfaction of my cock.”

His vehemence slapped Gendry about the face. He reared back, aghast, “And that’s what you think I’ve done? Risked having a life with Arya for fucking her?”  
“If last night was any indication... _twice_ ,” the word was harsh, bitten between clenched teeth.

Gendry barked a contemptuous laugh, hands fisting at his sides. If the lad _weren’t_ his son…

“Plenty more than twice, mate,” he retorted, almost under his breath, but loud enough that Hart reacted as if he’d been shoved, his face flushing a shade of puce that was extremely unbecoming. 

“Look,” Gendry said, tamping down his own temper. The insane rush of pride he’d felt making the assertion dissipated and a mortifying awkwardness at the inappropriate boast took its place. Scrubbing a hand over the back of his neck he continued, “I’m glad enough you’re waiting until you’re wed. It shows you’re _usually_ ,” his look was pointed, “a respectful, responsible lad, and your lady deserves that. _My_ lady is different from yours. Always has been. I expected we’d made you uncomfortable, and I’d come to apologize. But don’t let our conduct colour the impressions you’re forming. Or at least,” he amended, “let me explain.”

“Are you and she…? Is everything…settled…between you?” Hart addressed the question, haltingly, to his boots.

Gendry sighed, “Settled as it ever was, mate. She’s here and I love her. She plans to stay and she loves me.” His face had taken on a dreamy, adoring expression that Hart had never seen. Da was glowing: with purpose, with happiness, energized with a concealed excitement he’d not witnessed before. Gloom entirely expelled. Because of one night with _her_.

“You gave her back her knife,” it was a statement, not a question. 

Gendry nodded, swallowing hard. “That decision had already been made, mate. When I gave her those knives sixteen years ago it was a pledge. I meant her to carry us with her. I’m relieved she has—that they were as useful a tool as they were a vow. I’m not saying there aren’t details we’ll have to manage, but I want to be in her life. And she says she wants to be here—or as here as you’re comfortable with her being—for both of us.” Gendry paused, taking in Hart’s troubled expression. “What’re your concerns, mate? We both want to make this work for you. She was clear as could be about that. And however much I love her, I love you just the same.”

His declaration of it made Hart’s shoulders drop in relief. “I’m not ready to acknowledge her, Da,” Hart mumbled, apologetically, again to his father’s boots, “Or for her to acknowledge me. I need to figure out what doing that would mean. For me. For Rena and I. For the family we want to have. Is that… Will that wreck things?” His eyes met Gendry’s searchingly, “The pull between you—I’d never seen or felt anything like it. Will you…hate me…?” his voice wobbled slightly.

All at once he appeared to Gendry as the little boy who’d reached his arms up tearfully at him, from his crib in the night, trembling from a nightmare. Gendry strode across the room, pulled his boy to his feet and crushed him in his embrace, pressing a kiss into his disordered hair. The lad was shaking. He held him tight, rocking him gently in silence for a time, thumping his back occasionally. No matter that they were the same height. No matter that he was a man-grown and nearly wed. Hart was still his child and his child wrestled with the most difficult challenge of his life: Arya Stark. A born challenge if ever there was one. “Never,” he vowed, speaking directly into Hart’s ear, “Hate’s not something I’d ever feel when it comes to you. And it won’t wreck things. Because she and I are fighting on the same side when it comes to you. You’re _ours_. We’re both on _your_ side. It’s the first thing she troubled to make clear to me. The first thing we agreed on. You’ll have your own relationship with her. Independent of mine. It can be whatever you need it to be. Or not be. That’s okay. So long as you’ll allow me the same.”

“But what if someone finds out? Seeing you together? Together with me?”

“We’ll figure it out.” 

“But…”

Gendry’s voice was firm, “I don’t have ready answers just now, mate, but we’ll figure it out. I think I put off speaking to you yesterday because I didn’t have her side yet—and I needed it. Needed to understand what I needed from her—what she needed from me. We’ve covered that some, but there’s years and years of it to go over. I don’t think that negotiation will ever really end. It’s just understanding that we’re both _in it_ that needed to be established. We’ve got that far. And she’s the best chameleon I know. Can hide everything about herself better than anyone else I’ve ever met. She’ll present herself to the Queen today. You can carry on with her in public as you have done since The Wall. She and I are going to proceed as if we’re barely acquainted in public. Don’t push her away because you’re afraid. She did that herself and where we’re all at now is because of it.” 

“ _Fear cuts deeper than swords_ ,” Hart muttered, reflectively.

“Right. Where’d you hear that?” 

“Her.”

A twinge of wry acknowledgement pulled at the corners of Gendry’s mouth. Of its own accord, it stretched into a sunny grin that illuminated his entire face, “’Sides, you’re getting wed tomorrow! It’ll be too busy with everything going on for anyone to look too close and start drawing conclusions.”

“Rawly guessed,” Hart interjected, “He figured it out watching us spar. Swore he wouldn’t say anything though.”

Gendry’s face betrayed his surprise, “That quickly? I suppose…he’s known _you_ forever. He’ll see things in you that people who don’t know you as well won’t. And we needn’t confirm anything that anyone speculates. Rumours are wind. Have you told Rena?”

Hart nodded, his gaze flickering uncertainly to Gendry’s and away again, “I needed her to know. I don’t want secrets between us. And…she helps, Da. The way she thinks…talking things over with her…helps.”

Gendry’s hand clapped itself behind Hart’s head, forcing his eyes up to meet his own, “That’s the way it’s supposed to work, mate. I’m glad you told her. She’ll have your back.” Hart blinked at him solemnly and another smile pulled at Gendry’s mouth and he tousled his son’s already messy hair, “You’re lucky, son: once you’re wed, no one will expect to see much of you for a few days. Indulge in it. The world will never grant it to you again—sanctioned time locked away to enjoy your lady’s charms. That’ll give me—us—some time to make plans.” Hart thought he sounded slightly wistful—maybe even a little envious. Da had, Hart realized, never had that experience himself. Not once. Even now he intended to trouble himself about keeping the depth and breadth of his love secret from the world. What he’d witnessed between his parents last night was something they actively suppressed— _had_ actively suppressed from all the world for longer than he’d been alive. How much effort it must take! For both of them! He thought of the way he’d absently reach out and tug on a lock of Rena’s hair, or simply take her hand, or the way she’d smile at him across a room when she caught him gazing at her. His parents had never openly done that. Doing so last night, in front of _him_ —the only visible, tangible, physical manifestation of proof that they’d ever loved… Hart realized how momentously freeing that must have felt. And his father was trying to tell him they would continue to lock that huge, life-altering secret away—for as long as they could manage— _for him_. Gratitude overwhelmed him—and then immediately on its heels—he felt chastened. 

“Are you still sailing with us from White Harbor?”

Gendry shook his head, “No. I’ll take the King’s Road back with Rawly and the rest. That ship’ll be just you and Rena and Hero and whoever she feels she needs with her. Give you a true honeymoon without the rest of us gawking at you every time you come up for air. You’ll get enough of that once you’re back at Storm’s End.”

Hart was blushing. Gendry took that as a necessary segue, “What? You’re embarrassed? After what you witnessed from me last night? Come on, mate!” Gendry smiled teasingly at him. 

Hart smiled a slightly wobbly smile back.

“You nervous? About anything?” Gendry inquired. Hart’s exasperated eyeroll made him chuckle as he protested, “It’s my job to ask! I’m your father.”

“You tell me whatever you think needs knowing, Da. If I have questions, I’ll ask,” he responded.

“There’s only a couple of specific things, I think, mate,” Gendry confided. “You love her and she loves you and that’s at the root of all of it. The love itself does more than half the work. Beyond that: watch and listen to her—not just what she says—her body’ll speak too. Her _whole_ body. Pay attention. Make her sing. Hold out best as you can until she does.”  
Hart’s grey eyes were wide with astonishment. 

His father’s, in contrast, were frankly earnest, his blue eyes entreating Hart’s grey ones: “It’s the best advice I’ll ever give you, mate. Take it to heart.”

~

By the evening of the day before his wedding, Hart found himself awash in more of that type of advice. His mates had been baiting him for weeks—offering all manner of crude jests. Cregan had been the worst of the lot and Hart was glad he’d made the decision early on in his courtship to pay him very little—to no—heed. Although he was a good and fearsome sparring partner and an entertaining hunting companion, Hart knew their friendship was not one that would withstand the distance once he returned to the Stormlands. They were friends of proximity, convenience, and occupation, not of substance. And he knew he’d never take an ounce of the advice he proffered about bedding women. 

Rawly’d acquired some experience with a couple of different girls in the Stormlands, and his blunt suggestions seemed no more than basic sense: to ask Rena if he felt unsure or sensed in any way that she was, and that he’d likely not want to, but he should spend himself elsewhere if he wasn’t immediately inclined to make an heir. Hart had shaken his head at that second piece of advice and informed Rawly that he’d best go see Maester Ormund when they got back—or even Maester Wolkan here at Winterfell—and ask about acquiring some moon tea. It was within Rawly’s means to provide it to any girl he chose and Hart understood it to be more reliable. Rawly’s eyes had widened comically and he’d demanded, “Why—in the name of The Seven—didn’t you tell me about this magic stuff _before_?” 

Hart rolled his eyes. “Don’t go sticking your dirk into every willing girl you find just because you think you can get away with it,” he admonished, “It’s no guarantee—she has to choose to take it herself for several days—longer if you’re at it consistently. The Maester said some girls don’t believe in taking it—that they think it’s an act against The Mother to do so—and it won’t stop the itch or the pox.” 

Curiously, Rawly probed, “Lady Rena going to take it?”

“We’ve talked,” Hart allowed, “but that’s between us, Rawls. You understand?”

~

Shortly after midday, as he finished polishing and stowing Rena’s bridal gifts into their soft white leather wrapping, Lady Yara knocked at his door. “You made it!” he observed, gladness brightening his face. “Cutting things close, though, my lady. Does the queen know you’re back?”

“Not yet. She’s still in council. Had to make certain your honeymoon vessel and her crew was fit for their important cargo. You think you’re ready? For tomorrow?” she inquired.  
Hart nodded, “I’ve just completed my bride’s gift, so…,”

Yara took a step into the room, shaking her head and closing the door behind her, “That’s not the kind of ready I meant.” Her dark eyes flashed mirthfully at him. Oh. She meant… Hart flushed. He’d not expected to get _that kind_ of advice from a woman. He immediately realized how stupid that was. Who would know better? Particularly when such advice came from one who’d been bedding another woman regularly for more than a decade. He wordlessly offered her a seat. She planted herself upright and wide-legged on a stool as Hart lapsed into the chair across from her. 

“There’s lots I could say, but it won’t help drowning you in details. I’ll keep it simple. First: a dry sea’s no good for sailing. And I don’t mean damp,” she clarified, raising her eyebrows, her tone pointed, “you need a _wet_ sea. Especially the first time. It’ll be better—and easier—for both of you that way.”

Hart’s cheeks were crimson and he couldn’t meet her eyes, but he nodded, swallowing audibly.

Yara felt strangely protective, seeing the boy’s evident bashfulness. She liked him—they’d always got on well together—even during that first awkward trip North three years ago. And the advice she could impart most lads wouldn’t ever be privy to—not even from their mothers. Perhaps, she ruminated, the irony not lost upon her— _especially_ not their mothers. She liked Rena too, and thought the girl—any girl, really—deserved a decent (and ideally pleasurable) fuck—especially the first time. “Watch my hand,” she instructed, suppressing the grin that threatened as she heard his intake of breath, eyes studiously avoiding hers, but coming to rest on the upturned palm she held balanced on her knee. “Think whirlpools and sea plants moving with the current,” she curled her fingers, twisting, twirling, curling and occasionally separating them in a mesmerizing motion, her thumb swirling circles above. “Do that well enough, and she’ll get plenty wet—won’t even need your cock to finish.”

Hart choked, flabbergasted. Dimples appeared on Yara’s cheeks as she grinned, stood, and thumped him soundly on the back before striding to the door. On the threshold she paused, turned back, and off-handedly lobbed one final piece of advice: “Nearly forgot! Her mother may have told her—or she might have picked it up with the midwifery—but you should encourage her to make water once you’ve finished. Not straight away—you can both catch your breaths first—but before sleeping. Some women get shy of doing that with a partner near.”

“Why?” Hart asked, startled, but intensely curious. Not about why a woman might feel shy about it, but about the tip itself.

Yara fixed him with a stern look, “It’ll help keep her nether regions healthy so you can continue enjoying each other. Don’t imagine you’ll want to quit once you get started. It’ll help.” She made the motion with her hand again, “Practice!” she commanded and strode out of the room. 

She’d never been one to be gainsaid. Thoughts racing, Hart stared at his own hand, trying to mimic her actions, until the call sounded for dinner. 

~

#### Sansa’s Private Rooms—Shortly After Council

Arya’d chosen her moment to greet her sister with wicked precision. 

Of course, she _hadn’t_ intended to appear just as her sister’s back arched from her bed, gasping Yara’s name until it sounded like nothing so much as a series of echoed syllables: “Yara-aara-aarraa-arraa-AArraa-ARA!… … **ARYA!** ” Her own name came out as a shriek of dismayed horror. Sansa’d very nearly knocked Yara’s head from her shoulders, the way she’d twisted: catapulting herself out of the bed, her skirts falling and swirling around her, face aflame. It was her sister’s own fault really. Careless to leave the bedchamber door unbarred if you were going to bed your lover in the middle of the day. Once they’d left the forge, she and Gendry hadn’t been careless about that _at all_ , she thought smugly. When the maids came in the morning to light the fires, he’d growled at them through the door—sending them away—declaring himself perfectly capable of seeing to the fire himself should he need one. Which he didn’t. Because it was bloody summer and he was a furnace. She’d buried her head in his pillows to muffle her laughter. Returning her thoughts to the matters at hand, she bowed her head slightly in salutation, grinning, “Sansa. Lady Yara. Apologies for intruding during such an…intimate moment.”

Yara pushed herself up from the bed, one hand gripping the back of her neck as if she’d wrenched it, a glimmer of wry jocularity behind her eyes. Arya didn’t know her—had only encountered her briefly that once—but she hadn’t been trained to notice in the House of Black and White for nothing. That glimmer spoke volumes. Arya offered her arm in a gesture of goodwill. Lady Yara pointedly wiped her hand on her shirttails before clasping it. A short battle of wills ensued: grips tightening, mouths hardening. In tacit agreement, both nodded, ceding to the other at the same moment. Sansa was scowling at them, from the window where she’d retreated, one hand at her throat muttering, “You could have at least had the decency to knock! Why must you always and forever be _lurking_?” 

Yara strode over to the sideboard, and offered the flagon, wordlessly, to Arya, who declined. She poured a cup for herself and a second for Sansa, before crossing the room again, and pressing a fervently tender kiss to Sansa’s clenched jaw before subsiding into one of the chairs—her leg draped casually over the sidearm. It was, simultaneously, a powerplay, a demonstration of unity and an act of contrition. To make it clear that she wasn’t bothered—that neither of them should be embarrassed by her intrusion—that they’d nothing to be ashamed of—and to placate Sansa’s ruffled sensibilities. Arya wasn’t looking to shame them—to be fair, she didn’t honestly think anyone could possibly be that far along in the process between the time she’d seen them kiss one another lightly in the corridor and the time she’d opened the bedchamber door. She’d intended to catch them in conversation, not… _that_. She didn’t begrudge either of them the pleasure of one another. They quite obviously felt a similar passion to the one she and Gendry shared. At the thought of him, Arya couldn’t help picturing him with his mouth on her the way Yara’s had been on Sansa. The image brought a warm and telling dampness to her smallclothes. They’d have to try _that_ later. It simply wasn’t _fair_ how much her body craved him. 

Sansa waved her arm in the direction of the chair closest to Arya. There were fine lines around Sansa’s eyes now. She squinted a little. Both things reminded her of their mother. As she moved to settle into it, she could sense the scolding she was about to receive, but found herself more than ready to welcome it. 

“Sixteen years without any word of you! I’d all but given up. Where _have_ you been? And why’d you not ride in with the rest of them yesterday?”

“I learned a great many things while I was away. Sailed west, ended up south, sailed west again. Circumnavigated the world. Did you know it was a sphere, Sansa? Traversed the formerly uncharted lands of Ulthos—there’s a giant navigable river that flows across the entire thing! Some places slightly more navigable than others…but navigable. As for why I didn’t ride in with the rest?” Arya shrugged, “I was…lurking.”

Yara leaned forward, gaze avid, but she didn’t push in despite the questions she could feel bubbling up inside her. Arya’d been farther across the ocean than she herself had ever dared to dream. Seen more than any legends of the Iron Born or wider Westeros had recorded. How, by the Drowned God, was she so fathomlessly blessed? But these were questions best filed away for later. She would bear witness to this long-awaited meeting between sisters—between a Queen and her proclaimed heir—and hold her own counsel until she was asked.

“Is that why you’ve returned? You’ve seen everything there is? Learned your fill?”

“It was time. I was ready.”

“Ready for…?” Sansa raised a questioning brow at her sister. 

Arya met her eyes and raised a single brow of her own.

“Are you really going to make me ask?” Sansa remarked.

Arya merely cocked a sardonic brow at her. 

“Fine. I’ve been led, for some years now, to believe you weren’t forced, but…” Sansa snapped the question as swift and sudden as a soaring hawk after a mouse.  
Shocked revulsion filled Arya’s face, followed by fury and a resoundingly vehement, “Gods no! I wanted him, Sansa. I wanted him more than I’ve ever wanted anyone, ever.”

“And the child?”

“Was…unintended,” seeing the look in Sansa’s eyes she plowed on, “But I made that choice, Sansa. Me. Alone. I dictated everything about everything and he let me.”

Sansa’d been certain enough, but given the weight of her own memories, something deep inside her had yearned for Arya’s word on the matter. The complete relief that washed over her now made her shield her face: one hand over her eyes, the other obscuring her mouth, a shudder trembling over her. 

Raising a quizzical brow at Yara—who shrugged—Arya came to stand beside her sister, tentatively placing a reassuring hand on her shoulder. In a tone of marveling regret, she observed, “That you could have met him—fostered the boy he raised—corresponded with him for years—hosted him here for weeks, and _still_ had those doubts…Sansa…how _suspicious_ you are.” 

“I’ve had need of being,” Sansa retorted, tone scathing. “What brought you back, Arya? What is it you want?”

Arya’d taken a step back, Sansa’s voice had stiffened—like a cold winter wind, “Jon said you’d named me formally as your heir some years ago. I can be Lady Stark, if you need me to be. It won’t change anything about who I am or how I choose to live, but if that’s something that would make your circumstances easier…” she breathed out a heavy sigh, Sansa’s gaze had narrowed; become shrewd and calculating. “I’ve not come to take anything away from you, Sansa. I don’t want to rule Winterfell, or the North. I never have. Think I’d be frightful at it, to be honest. But I’m your sister; this was _our home_. I can help.”

“You’ll acknowledge him then? Properly? Give us an heir for the North?”

Arya’s eyes narrowed. “Gendry told me about your earlier…suggestions. About your desire to somehow wrangle Hart into becoming your heir—or one of his as yet unborn children.”

Sansa’s blue eyes widened, and she spoke guilelessly, “You’ve already seen _and_ spoken at length with him then?” Her expression held a cat-like smugness. She continued, with disingenuous patience, as if explaining to a child, “Inheritance is a problem for The North. There must always be a Stark in Winterfell. And once I’m gone—I’m well enough, but I’m older than I was and as I’ve told my councilors repeatedly, there will never again be a man welcome—or unwelcome—in my bed. Much as we love, Yara and I cannot make an heir of our own. Why the gods designed things in such a way…,” she shrugged, elegantly. “Proposals were made to Lord Baratheon. He appeared…disinclined to accept them. You might still hold some sway over him. Perhaps you can convince him…”

Arya made a derisive noise. “None of it’s up to Gendry! Or to me! Any decision about Hart is Hart’s to make. He wants to be wed and return to the Stormlands. Build his life there.”

“And how, _exactly_ , do you know…,” Sansa’s brow was uplifted in skepticism.

“ _I asked_ ,” she interrupted, between clenched teeth. “Look, Sansa: I came back to be who I am. Who I am is a Stark: the sister of the Queen of the North. I can’t deny that. There’re other things I can’t deny either, but I won’t claim them—I’m not free to claim them—when they involve the lives of other people!”

Nonchalant, Sansa resumed, “Then I can only assume that since you are offering to shoulder the responsibilities of your role as my heir, that you are declaring yourself ready to wed and bear children for the good of the North.”

Arya could feel her blood rising. “No. I’m _not_ saying or agreeing to that _at all_.”

Sansa rolled her eyes, “Then what, by all the gods, are you suggesting, Arya?”

Arya bit her lip. “Can’t it just be that I’m here? In Westeros? Alive?”

A long silence threaded its way through the room. As Sansa opened her mouth to reply, she caught sight of Yara’s fingers, three of them dropped against the side of her armrest. It was a signal they had: two fingers meant ‘hold back for now’, three fingers meant ‘I’ve something to offer.’ Sansa sighed and transitioned smoothly, “I _am_ glad you’re alive, Arya. I suppose the truth is that I’ve become accustomed to the ambiguity of you.” Balancing her chin on her hand, her index finger pointing in Yara’s direction, she wordlessly conveyed her permission to engage. 

With consideration, Yara began, “For now—today, tomorrow and the next several weeks—Arya’s likely right. The Hero of Winterfell has returned to her rightful place. If she hadn’t, the uncertainty would’ve mounted in time and the advisors would’ve started circling again. Soon. Especially once the wedding festivities are over, the guests depart, and the regular tedium sets in. With her known to be alive, accessible…and here—it buys you time.” Underneath her words was a message: do nothing hasty. Provoke nothing.

Arya hadn’t anticipated that kind of outright support. She inclined her head to Yara respectfully. Yara replied in kind. Sansa looked thoughtful, “You may be right,” she smiled graciously. 

“Hart,” Arya began, and the other women’s eyes swiveled in her direction, “Is there anyone else at Winterfell who knows who he is? Who we _really_ are to him?” 

Sansa shook her head, “The secret bearers are in this room. Save the ones I’m sure you already know: his father, Jon, and the boy himself. I am unaware of him having informed anyone else—though of course, he may have without my knowledge. So many of those old enough to draw conclusions died in the Long Night and the winter that followed—there was less speculation than there might have been otherwise. I suspect…,” she saw Arya tense up across from her, “ _Bran_ knows… _whatever_ Bran knows.” Arya’s shoulders relaxed as quickly as they’d tensed. Nobody and everybody was comfortable as they could be with Bran’s scope of knowledge. 

“Keep it that way,” Arya decreed with the barest hint of a threat. “I meant it when I said I won’t claim anything from or for him that he doesn’t claim himself. Let him choose me, or not. For now, I am a coincidence. Your sister returned by chance in time to witness the wedding of your ward. Nothing more. I want your word.”

Sansa rose, “If you give me a moment to dress we can go out to the godswood…”

“No,” Arya stood, shaking her head, and moved so she was toe to toe with the Queen, her eyes steely and unyielding, “You’ve pledged to keep such a secret that way before and broken your word before sunset the same day. Swear it on the love you have for Yara. Your passion will rot, your love will founder, and, sister or not, I will come for you as I came for the Freys if you betray my son, Sansa. I’d rather work as we did against Littlefinger, for the good of our House and alongside you, but if you force my hand…” 

Sansa’s eyes were huge and she’d paled noticeably, but as she repeated Arya’s earlier words, her tone was noticeably mocking, “Arya…how _suspicious_ you are.” Arya fixed her sister with a look that spoke volumes. She remembered how quickly she’d traded the secret of Jon’s lineage. Yara had risen and taken a step in their direction, but Arya raised an eloquent eyebrow that told her to fuck right off as Sansa cautioned her away with a flutter of her hand. On Yara not intervening, at least, the sisters were in accord.

Sansa straightened her shoulders, and spoke levelly into Arya’s eyes, “I swear, on the love I bear for Lady Yara Greyjoy—a love that sustains and nourishes each and every one of my days—that my only sister’s child will remain a secret until such time as that child chooses. Should it be my actions or Yara’s that dishonor this pledge, our passion will rot, our love will founder and my sister may take whatever justice she believes fitting.” 

Yara couldn’t help the displeased cough that escaped her. Both sisters turned to her, eyebrows lifted. For two people who looked so dissimilar on the surface, there were times you could see the family connection, Yara admitted to herself. 

“Did you wish to add something, Lady Greyjoy?” Arya asked, one eyebrow cocked daringly, “Do you take issue with the words my sister’s spoken? Do I need to hear you speak them as well, or will her word stand for you?”

“I’ll speak whatever damn words I want, Lady Stark. I agree so far as that his secret is his to share as he likes. I’ve not meddled in that so far and I won’t.”

With a jerk of her head, Arya accepted the pledge and turned to take her leave. 

“Arya?” Sansa called. 

Arya stopped at the door and turned back.

“I’ve— _we’ve_ —come to love him, you know. He’s a warm, worthy, clever, honorable lad. Like Robb was. I wish him only the success that is due him. I, truly, _wouldn’t_ want to hurt him.”

Arya smiled, but the smile never quite reached her eyes, “I’d imagine that’s what a basilisk thinks when she lays her eggs, but sometimes she can’t help herself returning to the nest to see them hatch.”

Affronted and haughty, Sansa retorted, “I’m a wolf, not some basilisk.”

Arya’s tone was meditative…considering, “You were, once. I’m not certain you still are—since you lost Lady. I know you’ve always blamed me for that. You spent too much of your life cultivating favor with lions, mockingbirds, and krakens. But maybe you’re still a wolf. The Hound seemed to think you capable of it—that you held the secret to his redemption anyhow. His words saved Hart from my recklessness then. Maybe his belief in you will save Hart from your intrigues now. You’ve only the one chance with me on this, Sansa. Honour it.”

~

#### The Great Hall—After the Evening Meal

The ladies had left he hall some time before and Lord Snow’s expression was warm and—unusually for him—unguarded. He straddled the bench beside Hart and clapped a hand to his shoulder. The lad turned to him, cheerfully. Gendry raised his cup to him across the trestle and gestured for him to take a seat and join them. They’d all had plenty to drink. One toast after another had flowed across the hall that evening—made by smallfolk and greatfolk alike—honoring the returned Hero of Winterfell, Bringer of the Dawn, Circumnavigator of the Known-World. Lady Arya Stark had appeared in the Great Hall, steps behind her queenly sister, for the evening meal. Her return was met with great acclaim and the raucous celebration hadn’t dissipated with her departure alongside the other ladies of the court. Those left behind were beginning to exhibit the full effects. Between tomorrow’s wedding and the return of their hero and heir, the wine cellars of Winterfell would surely take a beating. 

Peering—a little unsteadily—into Hart’s eyes Jon advised solemnly, “’Spect everyone’s given you more than enough advice about tomorrow, lad, but I’ve a piece more…?“   
It seemed incongruous that a man who’d never married, a sworn brother and former Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, could impart anything useful on the subject of marriage. Hart tilted his chin, giving his uncle the go-ahead, but as his eyes met Jon’s again, he remembered their conversation beyond the Wall: the woman for whom duty had been the death of love and the other woman for whom love had been the death of duty. The first one must have been the Dragon Queen—the whole world said they’d been lovers before he’d become her Queenslayer. Hart realized how little he really knew of this man; he seemed such a stoic, solitary figure. His brow quirked, revealing his interest.

Jon leaned in closer, confidingly, offering gruffly, “A woman has more than one set of lips, aye? Pay homage to both sets attentively and you’ll not go far wrong. You may find the taste of one even sweeter than the other,” Jon leaned back, swaying a little, his eyes shining, and stood, clapping him encouragingly on the shoulder again—steadying himself there. “I don’t know much,” he admitted, gaze fixed in the distance, “but I know _that_.” His eyes shifted back to Hart’s, a weary smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He swung his leg over the bench, raised his cup at Gendry, and meandered away. 

Hart stared after him, his mouth agape. Turning back, he noticed Da sitting stock still, cup aloft and frozen halfway to his mouth, the expression on his face mirroring his own. Seconds passed. Da closed his mouth. His jaw tightened. Setting his cup down, he studiously avoided making eye-contact as he rose, excusing himself. 

Starks. Bloody Fucking Starks. Not only did they conquer foes with hidden knives, they plunged emotionally charged daggers of revelation into unsuspecting family just as readily.

~

#### The Queen’s Solar – After the Evening Meal

Arya was entirely unaccustomed to milling about with ladies. This was _precisely_ the scenario she’d endeavored to avoid her entire life. It wasn’t being amongst groups of women _in general_ that she objected to—just _this specific situation_. It brought up all of her latent dread about what it meant to be a lady—of what being Lady Stark _actually meant_. Lady Stark was her mother. Had been—briefly—her perfect sister. _Not her_. For an instant she wondered if she’d allowed herself to assume a different title it might be easier. Maybe, if she’d been able to step out of that shadow—forgo Lady Stark and adopt a different ladyhood instead—Lady Baratheon, perhaps? But no, she thought, her eyes lighting on the pretty, vibrant young girl with playful amber eyes and walnut-hair who was conversing with a group of friends in a corner of the solar: _that_ was Lady Baratheon. Or, at least, she would be tomorrow. She found herself crossing the room. The girls looked up as she approached and she felt in the pit of her stomach the old not-good-enough feeling begin to churn—just as it used to as a child when she’d see Jeyne whispering and giggling furtively with Sansa. But Hart’s lady _didn’t_ whisper or giggle, and her peaceably anticipatory silence quelled the others. Arya noticed the girl straightening her spine before she dipped into the cordial courtesy of a curtsy.

“Lady Stark!” Rena’s voice was warm and welcoming, “Please join us. It’s an honour to have you return home in time to be a guest at my wedding. You will attend, tomorrow, I hope?” Her eyes were bright, her cheeks flushed lightly. She appeared sincere. Her composure was notable. Or, maybe she didn’t know she was speaking to her betrothed’s mother—maybe Hart hadn’t chosen to confide in her yet—and she was simply well bred…and kind.

Arya consciously formed her features into bland pleasantry as she replied, “It’s kind of you to include me in your celebrations. I hope my arrival doesn’t overshadow them. I travelled with your intended from The Wall, Lady Rena. I wish you both happiness.” 

It all was true. And she _did_. But the exchange was so insipid it made her mind crawl. What she really wanted to do was pull this child away from her friends and interrogate her. Press her with questions and assess her responses the way she’d been able to do with Hart. But rooms like this were full of eyes watching everything all the time and tongues that would gossip about something as slight as a mis-laced eyelet. It was funny, she thought, how such scrutiny in a training ring had never bothered her. But it _did_ here. Perhaps she’d best think about it more like that—the eyes watching with intent were doing so for the same reasons as the eyes in the ring: to ascertain weaknesses, to form strategy, to offer suggestions on how to perform better. Arya just wished that she could be certain the eyes here were on her side. She’d always felt that they weren’t. And she knew she wasn’t as proficient at _this_ type of duel.

Rena was speaking again, “Hart told me he’d encountered you, my lady.” She raised her hand to brush a lock of her hair back behind her ear. The movement made the sleeve of her gown fall open, barely revealing the smooth, dark-glass pommel of a very familiar blade. For an instant both women’s eyes met and then Lady Rena dropped her arm. Her sleeve fell, concealing the knife completely. 

Arya was astounded. And impressed. Lady Rena made quiet conversation with her friends, occasionally pulling her into the conversation: inquiring after the fashions she’d seen as she’d journeyed. She was attentive without being overpowering. As Arya answered automatically, her thoughts raced down other more interesting roads. Plainly, the girl knew _enough_. And she’d found a way to let her know she knew it—cannily—and without drawing extra attention. But why did she have the knife? Did that mean something? If so, what?

Sansa appeared at her elbow and Maester Wolkan approached them not long after. “Your Grace? Lady Stark? These just arrived for you. From King’s Landing.”

_Dear Sansa,_

_I’d like the opportunity to parley with our sister about her time away. I’m certain the knowledge she’s gained will be of use to both The North and the Six Kingdoms. As she is your heir, I must formally request your permission for such a visit. As brother to you both, you must realize I am aware the entire decision lies ultimately with her. Be prudent, Sansa._

_\- Bran_

_Dear Arya,_

_Welcome home, sister. Do as you will in your own time, but come to King’s Landing when practicable. I should like to see you._

_\- Bran_

~

#### Gendry’s Rooms — Night

“You were right,” Arya said, slipping through the door to Gendry’s bedchamber and barring it behind her. Sansa had provided her with rooms of her own—in the main family Keep no less, as befitted the heir of Winterfell—and she’d gone there long enough to stow her things and wash before dinner, and returned to put the bed into some disarray, so that it appeared she was using it afterwards. But she’d take every opportunity she could to be alone with Gendry. There was still so much needed saying—both in words and… _other_ ways. 

“About what?” It was absurd—the way his face lit up and followed her across the room like a sunflower following its namesake across the sky. But it brought a fire to her blood and a peace to her soul that she hadn’t realized had been lacking. For all her adventures and discoveries and the thrills they’d delivered, _nothing_ compared to the sight of him gazing at her. Except…perhaps…the thrill that came when he didn’t _just_ look…when there was _touching_ as well.

Gendry seemed to understand exactly what she was feeling; he’d risen from the chair where he’d been unfastening his boots and hesitated—only momentarily—before capturing her face in his wide hands, and kissing her breathless. Several hours apart was several years less than he knew he could withstand, but he’d still felt the deprivation. When they eventually parted, he asked, “What am I right about? I’d like to know. It’s not often you’ve credited it to me.”

Arya rolled her eyes at him—in much the same way Hart had earlier and he grinned. There was such satisfaction to be had in seeing the reflection of them in each other. He _hadn’t_ just imagined it all these years.

“Sansa,” she grumbled. 

“The pair of you appeared happy enough in each other’s company at dinner. Were you masquing?”

Nodding, Arya smirked, “A bit. We’ve reached a détente, I think. For the good of the North, of course.”

“Naturally.” They smiled knowingly at one another. The look lengthened. Deepened. Intensified. 

A shiver rippled down Arya’s spine. She asked reluctantly, “Should we talk about things? Properly, I mean? Make some sort of…plan?” It was talking that might trip them up—send them stumbling into snares and pitfalls, wounding one another inadvertently as they thrashed about trying to explain themselves to one another—to find solutions. It was so tempting to return to the easier part. She eyed the bed and began toeing off her own boots. 

The day had taken them away from one another and Gendry was sure she had as much to share with him as he had to share with her. They’d loved quickly and fiercely again that morning, after he’d sent the maids away, and then he’d gone off to sort things out with Hart. Which he’d done. And needed to explain to her. But their broken and patched-together hearts were fragile; the rest rusty and out-of-practice. And his physical want of her was so great. “Without getting distracted?” Gendry queried, then added doubtfully, “We can try, I guess.” His lips began a slow, whispering journey down her neck. 

She hummed happily, fingers coiling into his hair. As one of his hands cupped her backside, encouraging her closer, she smirked and declared, “Sansa. Let’s start with Sansa, then.” Gendry’s seeking hands immediately ceased their explorations; he groaned—released her arse—and leaned his forehead against hers, looking woebegone. With a twinkle in her eyes, Arya continued, “See! The thought of her’s like pouring cold-water all over you! _She’s_ what you were right about.”

“Which part?” Evidently, they were going to converse first tonight. Probably should be the order they did things anyway, but he couldn’t help feeling regretful. 

“She said if we’d married in secret before the battle…”

“…Hart would be her legitimate heir to the North,” Gendry finished for her. He threw himself wearily into one of the chairs by the fire. “It raises more questions than it answers, though. Some would accept it readily enough, but if anyone thinks about it too long…I don’t want everyone speculating about you and I and why you might have left. Why you’d leave Hart. Why I’d have Bran legitimize him if he were already legitimate. I don’t like it,” he finished grumpily.

Arya’s heart warmed. He was worried about her. About her reputation. Something she’d never cared a whit about. Except she had. She’d cared so much she’d tried to throw that part of her away thinking she could never live up to it, and spent years running from it. _‘Be who you are and be whole.’_

“I’m _not_ your wife,” she stated with conviction, then added hesitantly, “But…is that…something…you still wish for? For us?”

He looked up at her in surprise, “It’s more…,” he took a moment to gather his thoughts, “I like the idea of the clarity it provides. Not having to think so hard all the time about what my face and actions might give away. When you’re wed, everyone understands you’re on the same side.”

“There’s plenty of husbands and wives working to different ends,” she reasoned, “Look at your father and Cersei. And schemers always scheme. Plus, there’s the other side of that too,” she added, more introspectively, “Everyone understands how best to make you hurt—what you have that you’d most want to keep from losing.”

Gendry’s eyes held hers: deep blue wells of empathy speaking silently to the sorrow shadowing her grey. After several moments of silence, he went on, “Guess I just like that it takes certain questions right off the table.”

“And puts others right back on.”

“I’m not arguing _for_ it, Arya,” he blustered, “ _You asked_. I’m telling.”

“I know I did,” she said, coming to rest on the wide armrest of the chair he was seated in. His left arm came around her waist, his palm settling on the top of her thigh.  
With a squeeze he explained, “I’d never not want it if you ever did. But I’ve no need of it. So long as _we_ know we’re on the same side I don’t give a toss what the rest of the world thinks. Except for Hart,” he added, ruefully, “I _do_ care what _he_ thinks.” The memory of their earlier heated conversation brought a flush to his cheeks.

“How’d it go with him?” Arya asked, turning her body slightly and running her fingers through the hair at his temple, “Was he upset? Did he say anything more about what he wants?” She’d prefer hearing it from the boy directly. It was why she’d given him the knife. Seeing the hilt of it up Rena’s sleeve this evening had come as a shock. His entrusting it to her so readily spoke volumes about his feelings for her. That wasn’t shocking. If anything, gaining that particular insight into her son’s relationship was reassuring. It was Rena’s quiet self-assuredness and poise as she signaled her knowledge of the situation that she wasn’t quite sure yet how to read. So often, in her experience, acquiring made people wish to acquire more. It wasn’t often someone was happy to rest with whatever they’d been granted. There was always that push-pull: keep acquiring or else you were losing—keep gaining or else be left behind. It applied to possessions, lands, titles, people, information…and all of _that_ meant power…and inevitable conflict. 

“He’s not ready to claim you yet—or return the blade. I think he’s in favor of time, but he’s wary of people figuring it out on their own. Like Rawly did. Worries about what us all being in the same place might reveal.”

“Then we stay apart for now. Best we can. He’ll be otherwise occupied the next few days anyhow.”

“That’s what I told him. But,” Gendry considered, “how’s he meant to get to know you once he goes south? If _you’re_ here and _we’re_ there…,” His frown spoke eloquently: he didn’t want that kind of distance between them anymore. 

“A raven came from Bran. Sansa got one too.” She handed the scrap of parchment over to him. 

“He wants you in King’s Landing?” Gendry’s brow rose. 

“Seems so. I’d planned on going to see him eventually. Thought I’d stay here a bit longer first, to be honest, but that was my thinking before I knew you were here and it’s not…,” as she trailed off, Gendry looked up at her expectantly, waiting for her to finish. 

“Winterfell stopped being home years ago. I’d realized that when we were all here before and it’s another piece of why I had to go away. I’d spent so long trying to get back here and then it wasn’t what it used to be once I’d regained it. Those who made it what it was weren’t here—and if they were, they weren’t the same. And neither was I. A part of me will always wish for what it was. But I think…,” she lifted her eyes to his, and her fingers traced the line of his jaw, “ _You’re_ the one who makes me feel like I’m home.”

He caught her fingers in his own and brought them to his lips. It was such an unexpectedly tender thing for her to say. He still didn’t expect tender from her. Whenever she did go there, he could see the inner-strength she mustered and the barricades she forced herself to push past in order to admit the vulnerability: her heart carried limpidly in her eyes. Each time she did so awed him.

“So, what do we do, then?” he asked, pulling her into his lap and wrapping his arms around her, his voice low. “I can’t stay here. I mean…maybe I can someday down the road once Hart’s established, but I can’t now. He still needs me. I’m happy to let him take on all of it, but I don’t want him floundering around the way I did—learning. If I’m your home and I’ve got to go back south…”

Arya shrugged and pulled his arms around her even tighter, “Guess that means I’m going too.” 

Gendry smiled against her hair. “To King’s Landing? Or the Stormlands?”

“It’ll have to be King’s Landing…at least to begin with. It gives Sansa a reasonable excuse for why I’d come and go again so quickly. Are you sailing with Hart or…?”

He shook his head, “I’ve promised to give them that time and space alone together. In his place, it’s what I’d want,” he confessed, pressing a kiss to her temple, his fingers trailing along her arm. Her skin tingled. It made her smile. 

“Well, that will keep the three of us apart for a moon or three at least,” she mused. “It’ll also prevent Sansa from pressing forward on her alternate suggestion.” Arya’s mouth screwed itself into a grimace.

“What did she suggest?” Gendry asked distrustfully and with obvious foreboding.

“That if we’re not going to claim we were wed before, I should wed someone now to get heirs for the North. You were right about that too,” she admitted, apologetically.

Gendry could feel his blood beginning to boil with the anger he’d felt the night before. But the fury mounting inside him now was somehow even worse. The idea of anyone else having her. Of knowing her the way he’d known her. Of her carrying anyone else’s child. His arms clenched themselves around her unconsciously. She was _his_. 

Arya could feel the heat of his anger beginning to radiate and the tightness of his muscles around her: the way his embrace constricted. Oh. She _liked_ that. Felt a little ashamed of herself for liking the effects of him _not liking_ something so very much. “I wouldn’t, you know,” she said softly, “I can tell you don’t like the idea any more than I do.” She felt his tension give—just a fraction—at her words. “So, we’ve got to give her an alternative. I don’t intend to wed _anyone_. But we’ve got to figure out what I can offer her that she’ll accept.” They both considered things in silence for a spell. All at once, Arya remembered, “Oh! And Hart’s lady: he’s given her the throwing knife.” 

Gendry’s eyes widened. Hart hadn’t told him that. Arya went on, “I don’t know what that means. She signaled me she had it—without giving anything away—this evening.”

Gendry suddenly looked exhausted. Intrigues ran completely counter to his own blunt honesty…compounded by the fact that he’d been far too occupied the night before to get much sleep. “He didn’t tell me anything about that,” he grimaced before revealing, “He _did_ tell her about you though. He trusts her. And from what I know of her I think he should. She’s a good person and she loves him. You, milady, should know _that_.” He could tell the exchange perturbed her. It made him uneasy for Rena. She didn’t know what Arya was capable of. He did. 

“I wasn’t planning on taking my catspaw to her before the wedding. Or spending time in the kitchens baking her a pie,” Arya assured him, as if reading his mind, “But I _am_ curious about her. The person someone leaves in possession of their heart can tell you a lot about them.” 

Gendry snorted, “So what does you holding mine say about me?”

Arya leaned forward and kissed him soundly. “That you’re a glutton for punishment.” 

Gendry’s lips twisted upwards in self-mockery at the truth of her words. “And that I’ve yours?” he enquired, his hand tucking her hair back behind her ear. 

“That you’re strong enough, steady enough, stubborn enough to keep it beating in spite of whatever I do trying to make it stop.” 

Gendry stilled, holding his breath, his expression serious, “Was that what you were doing? Trying to make it stop?”

She held his eyes, “For awhile.” Their eyes spoke silently to one another for quite some time. Gendry felt a lump forming in his windpipe, as he regarded her. She’d as good as admitted she’d tried not to return to him. To cast herself away in the world and make it impossible for her to return to anyone. Ever. 

“But you’re not now, right?” Gendry finally asked. She shook her head. “And you won’t?”

She blew out a belabored sigh, “I’m not trying anymore, if that’s what you’re asking. But I can’t promise that the gods don’t have other plans. And I can’t be other than I am. Is that enough?”

The gods would always do what they would. It was the best anyone could promise. “You’ve always been more than enough for me, milady,” his voice hoarse with emotion.

Running her hands down the broad expanse of his chest, she tugged his shirt free of his breeches and pulled it over his head. “I’m here now,” she murmured reassuringly, her lips moving reverently down his neck and along the line of his collarbone, “And I’m well. And I think we’ve both had enough talking for tonight,” she concluded. Gendry rumbled his agreement, teeth nipping at the delicate skin under her ear, his hands roving under her own shirt. She leaned away to yank it off and then pushed herself up from his lap, only to kneel in front of him, her hands on his thighs. 

“I saw something earlier,” she began, coyly, “thought it looked like fun. I’ll give you a hint. See if you can figure it out.”

Gendry’s eyes were darkened pools in the light of the hearthfire. She cocked her eyebrow at him again and he began unfastening the ties of his breeches. Once he did, still on her knees, she began working on the ties of her own.

“I heard something earlier that sounded like fun too,” he admitted, his solemn, raspy voice lilting slightly.

“Oh?” her tone held a polite note of inquiry. He’d raised his hips from the chair and she tugged at the leather until he was free and bare before her.

“Hart was given some…advice. For tomorrow. I overheard.”

Arya bent forward and reached out to encircle his cock with her thumb and forefinger and began stroking. A strangled sound emanated from his throat at her touch. Leaning over him she breathed an encouraging, “Mmmmhmmm?” over the tip that sent vibrations skittering along his length before she took him into her mouth. His hips rose of their own volition and his fingers tangled themselves in her hair. He groaned, “Fuck, Arya.” He could feel her satisfied smile before she resumed what she was doing with her tongue. 

When his one hand spasmed against the armrest and the other tightened in her hair she knew it was time to pause. With a swirl of her tongue up the underside of his cock, she released him. As the cool air hit his damp flesh, his pleasure-heavy eyes found their way to hers. “You were saying before…?” she asked, wide-eyed and not-at-all-innocent. Right. That thing he’d wanted to try. 

“Get those off,” he instructed huskily, flicking his eyes at her breeches, “And I’ll show you.”

She didn’t waste any time, rising from her knees and shucking them to the floor all in one smooth motion. Barreling out of the chair, he heaved her, bodily, over his shoulder. A shrieking cackle escaped and she clapped a hand over her mouth. In seconds he’d practically thrown her onto the bed; the ropes squeaking in protest as she bounced. Catching each of her ankles, he dragged her to the edge of the bed and fell to his own knees. Her cheeks were pink and her eyes bright as she gazed down her body at him. For the barest second she glanced away to the door of his bedchamber, squinting through the darkness as if searching for something. He turned his head following, curious about whatever had distracted her. There was nothing but the barred door behind him. When he turned back her face was full of mirth, “Just checking that we’d barred the door,” she explained. 

“Good,” he asserted, and bent his head to the inside of her knee, pressing kiss after kiss up the length of her inner thigh, alternately scuffing her with his beard and tonguing her skin. She gasped, and her entire body shivered with delight as his mouth made its way up one side of her, his fingertips dancing upwards along her other. 

Lying like this, she was wide open to him. The scent of her filled his nostrils. He could see how ready she was for him; her arousal seeping out of her. He pressed an open-mouthed kiss against her folds and she sucked in a breath—tilting her hips upward and widening her legs for him even farther. He scooped his arms under her legs and spread his broad palms across the expanse of her stomach. She quivered and moaned—his tongue exploring her deeper. It was different from kissing her mouth: her lips and tongue weren’t battling his and instead, his mouth was flooded with the soft-honeyed-heat of her. He pressed closer, using his nose to jostle the bundle of nerves that he’d learned would ensure that her body would sing for him. It provoked a whine and her hips rotated, “More,” she breathed. Gazing up across her body, he thought he’d never seen anything quite so beautiful. Her eyes were closed, her expression rapturous as her fingers tugged at her nipples and she squirmed under his tongue. If she wanted more, he was only too happy to oblige. He teased her slowly with his mouth and when she clutched his hair and asked again for more, he slotted his middle finger inside her and began sucking and swirling above. Her legs began to shudder and he pressed deeper, harder, inserting a second finger. She cried out, her hand clutching his hair and his mouth caught the rush of her release. It _was_ sweet. He could feel her pulsing around his fingers. The miracle of it struck him each time he made it happen: and it never felt any less miraculous.

“Come up here,” she encouraged him, satisfaction stretching across her features. Her body continuing to undulate gently against the mattress, as if she were a sea-siren luring him. He’d never really cared if she were the death of him—in the deepest reaches of his heart he’d always thought she probably would be—and, regardless, he obeyed. “As you wish, milady,” he responded, crawling up the bed, laving a trail up her body and over each breast before he hovered over her. The moment his lips met hers, she wrapped her legs around his waist and flipped them both. He grinned up at her, settling his hands against her backside as she straddled him. She rolled her hips against him a few times before rising and impaling herself upon him—taking him deep. She bit her lower lip as she dropped the last couple inches. The thickness of him—his length. She felt so incredibly, completely, _full_ when he was inside her. He helped her ride him, his thumbs brushing against the scars on her body, hands worshipping her breasts. She leaned back, bracing her hands against his thighs as she climbed that peak again. She opened her eyes and the adoration on his face as he watched her astride him pushed her over the edge. She thrust her thumb into her mouth and bit down to stifle her cry, letting all of it rush over her. The glorious agony of her stifled release brought on his own and he choked back his own groaning cry. He’d almost shouted her name. In the pleasure-ravaged recesses of his mind he’d sense enough to know he couldn’t do that. Their eyes were locked upon one another as she continued to ride him—much slower now—but she stiffened again as the final jet of his seed spurted inside her and she convulsed atop him again—her brow creased and her lips open in a perfect, silent, “Ohhh.” 

Her whole body was trembling. He looked up at her. 

“Climb down and rest,” he suggested, stroking her thighs absently. 

She shook her head at him, “I want to feel you in me. As long as you’ll stay.”

“’S’fine,” he said, admitting with a yawn, “I might fall asleep. You’re an exhausting woman to love.”

“That’s okay,” she smiled and bent to press a kiss to his forehead, “Just don’t get tired of loving me.”

“What’d I say yesterday?” he mumbled, sleep stealing over him in waves that he didn’t want to fight, “there’s just times…I’m not…” he’d drifted off.

Arya smirked down at him. He might be bone-tired, but he was still hard. She clenched her inner muscles and felt his cock rally again. She wondered how long he’d doze, if he’d soften completely, or if she might be able to keep loving him—this way—as he dreamed. The love she felt for him was insatiable. 

~

Hart interrupted their early morning tryst. Interrupted wasn’t exactly accurate. They’d finished together and were wrapped in one another’s arms kissing lazily when his knock sounded at the door. 

“Da?” he called, “If you’re up I’d like to talk.”

Gendry rolled away from Arya and cleared his throat before answering, “Give me a minute, mate. I’ll be out shortly.” The rooms he’d been given had a private solar through which his bedchamber was accessed. Arya could remain in here dressing and he’d talk to Hart out there, privately enough. Their eyes held a silent conversation as he quickly threw on a shirt and pulled on a pair of breeches. At the door he turned, briefly, and smiled as he watched her stretching her arms widely, seated at the side of the bed. She looked back at him over her shoulder and repressed a yawn, her eyes glimmering at him. That _she_ was tired he didn’t doubt. He’d no idea if she’d slept at all between the time he’d fallen asleep and the moment he’d awoken—still buried deep inside her—her body quaking above him as she gasped his name—her nails scoring his chest. It was the best way he’d ever woken up. He’d rolled her over, captured her hands above her head, and plowed her until her eyes rolled back in her head and her body bowed beneath him—quivering with one wave of pleasure after another. Spent, they had both slept until she’d made him rise again with the dawn. 

He slipped out the door through the smallest crack his large body could manage, and closed it behind him. Hart was seated on the settle. “What’s up, mate? Can’t sleep? You excited?” He ran a hand over his head, scrubbing away the lingering sensation of Arya’s fingers.

“Is…?” Hart quirked a brow at the closed door.

Gendry nodded. 

Hart blushed, slightly. “Didn’t mean to…”

“It’s okay. Gives us a chance to talk all together if you’d like. Put us all on the same footing. Only if you want though,” he added, seeing Hart eyeing the door with some trepidation. 

“It’s only…I’ve mislaid the throwing knife. Or someone’s taken it,” Hart gabbled nervously. “I know I had it when I left the forge…”

Gendry’s stomach dropped to his toes. “You didn’t give it to Rena, then?” he asked, keeping his voice low and controlled.

“No…I…wait,” Hart stopped, confused and inquisitive, “She has it? How’d you know?”

“She saw she had it last night. Up her sleeve. She made sure she saw it.” The quantity of ‘shes’ and ‘hers’ was confusing, but he didn’t want to use her name. Unlike his bedchamber, the solar opened directly onto the corridor. _Anyone_ could be out there listening. 

Hart’s brow wrinkled in thought, “Must have left it there last night. Now you say, that is the last time I definitely remember having it. When I was talking with her about things.”

“Why d’you think she’d carry it?”

“It would be a strange thing for anyone to find in her chamber. Arrows and herbs they’d expect. Knives…not so much—and certainly none like that! And I didn’t see her again yesterday, Da. Not until dinner. Preparations kept both of us too busy. And there were so many in the Hall last night—we didn’t get a single private moment. Maybe she’d been meaning to give it me but the opportunity never presented itself.”

Gendry was nodding, “Makes sense. But why’d she make sure _she’d_ see it?” That part bothered him. It was different when he’d thought Hart had given it to her: he’d assumed the pair of them had a plan. Nothing about Lady Rena led him to suspect her of anything nefarious or underhanded, but waving that knife about under Arya’s nose was as good as goading her. Of course, the girl couldn’t know that. All she’d know of her was legends and songs. Those should have been enough to make her wary, though. He’d been relieved by Arya’s earlier magnanimity. He’d hope it’d hold. 

The bedchamber door cracked itself open—or so it seemed. Gendry crossed to the outer-door and barred it before gesturing with his head at Hart to make his way into the bedchamber. When he followed Hart through the door, Arya was fully dressed and sitting calmly in the chair by the hearth. Clearly, she was trying her best to maintain propriety for their boy. He closed the bedchamber door again behind him, smiling. 

“I think her purpose was in letting me know she knew,” she was saying, “Why?”

“I told her,” Hart answered bluntly. “She said she’d like to know you. I wanted that too,” he rushed on, “that’s why I asked you not to stay at The Wall and wait until after the wedding. Remember?”

Arya’s expression was thoughtful, “Of course.” 

“I asked her to keep it all secret. From everyone. Including her own family. She’ll be curious. The only way she’ll get answers is from us three. She’s patient, but she’s a scholar—she likes to understand things. You can’t fault her for wanting to hurry some of that along. Especially as we’ll be sailing south in a few days’ time. Without you.”

Arya’s gaze was shrewdly appraising, “And what are your feelings about that? Relieved? Worried? Disappointed? Content?”

Gendry felt as if he were holding his breath, waiting on Hart’s answer. 

The boy raised his shoulders eloquently, “I’m not certain from one moment to the next how I feel about any of it, my lady,” he replied. “I’m not sorry I asked you to come, but I’m terrified that someone will cast their eyes over the three of us and proclaim to all of Westeros that I’m yours. I want to continue getting to know you, but I don’t know how to do that under scrutiny.”

“I’ve concerns about that too,” she acknowledged, “But your father and I’ve got the beginnings of a plan.” As she and Gendry outlined the approach they’d considered, she watched Hart’s stance grow taller. He was on-board with her accepting Bran’s invitation to King’s Landing. She felt relieved. “I want to know her—and you better,” Arya disclosed, “I hope this might give us that chance. And, like I’ve said before: I want to do this in a way that makes you comfortable. But I can’t walk away from your father. Neither of us could stand it. Not again. Not ever.”

“Seeing the two of you together that night…it was…intense,” Hart admitted shyly, “and…discomfiting. But I think it made me understand better than your hiding it from me would have. And he’s _happy_ ,” he tilted his head toward Gendry. “I can’t deny that. For the first time in my entire life I can see a peace in him there’s never been before. He’s truly happy. _You_ make him that way. I don’t want to get in the way of that.”

Gendry looked bashfully at the floor, rubbing the back of his neck. His eyes darted up; both Arya’s _and_ Hart’s were gleaming at him. 

Hart watched his parents watching each other. The air between them didn’t ripple with overwhelming passion as it had two nights ago. He could tell they felt it—fulsome as ever, but it was satiated—like someone looking over the remains of a feast they’d just enjoyed. That thought sent a shiver along his spine and he couldn’t help eyeing the bed furtively; clearly, the cover had been hastily pulled over complete chaos.

Arya caught his shifty-eyed glance and rose, “Any suggestions where or when I might gain a moment alone with your lady? Today will be busy. For all of you. I’d like a chance to quell her curiosity, if I can. With your leave,” she added, seeing both of their jaws clench. Their tells were identical. The idea of her speaking to Lady Rena without either of them present made both men nervous. _That_ told her something about the girl too. She’d likely have her own opinions and not be shy about sharing them. It predisposed her towards liking the girl; she’d always preferred boldness to timidity and conviction to spinelessness. 

Hart’s eyes returned to hers and he cleared his throat, “She’ll likely be in the godswood before breakfast, my lady. She often prays there first thing and she definitely will today. Says it helps settle her for what might come. If you go now, you’ll likely catch her alone. And in circumstances that wouldn’t be thought…odd,” he added wryly. 

Arya smiled at him, sincerely, “I wish you nothing but well today and for the rest of your days. I’ll feel better once I’ve a better sense of her, but I want you happy as we are.” She dared to place a hand on his forearm and stood on tiptoe to brush a quick kiss across his cheek. His body stilled, his grey-eyes flying open in shock, fingers rising involuntarily to touch where she’d kissed him. Stepping back on her heels, her eyes laughed up at him. “You’ll want to shave properly. I _like_ the way your father’s beard chafes, but _your_ stubble is rough as sandpaper,” she chided him, “Be kind and give your fine lady’s skin half a chance tonight!” 

Chuckling at their gob-smacked faces she strode out of the room, unbarred the solar door, checked quickly for anyone who might observe her, and slipped away. 

Gendry’s hand came to rest on his son’s shoulder.

“Is she _always_ that startling?” Hart queried.

“Pretty much,” Gendry replied, off-hand, “You think you’re on level ground and then she’s shoved you into the riverbank or a pile of grain sacks.” He grinned. 

Hart looked at him, askance.

He wiped the grin off his face and tried to look contrite.

Expression easing into a smile of his own, Hart clapped his father on the shoulder, “I’m glad you’re happy, Da.” The two men beamed at one another. 

“Right!” Gendry said, giving Hart’s shoulder a companionable squeeze, “Let’s go get you fed and groomed so you’ve a decent shot at making your lady as happy as mine.”

~

#### The Godswood

It was still early on what promised to be a glorious summer’s day. There was a light haze skirting around the feet of the trees as Arya walked purposefully toward the figure kneeling before the old weirwood. All was quiet and still—her footsteps soundless in the grass. No one else was about. She couldn’t hear Rena’s prayer but she could feel the Old Gods listening. She hesitated to interrupt, but the later the day grew, the more chance that others would begin to intrude. The wedding would take place at twilight. 

She cleared her throat to draw attention to herself. Rena started and turned. Seeing it was Arya, she rose quickly to her feet and bobbed a curtsey. “Lady Stark!” she exclaimed.

“None of that, now,” Arya replied waving away the courtesy. She thought for an instant she sounded exactly like Bran when she added, “There’s not time for any of that.” She’d defended him—defended them all—underneath this very tree with everything she’d had. She felt, oddly, much the same approaching this girl who was to wed her son—although this defense would take far less physical effort but just as much subtle finesse. 

“Where’s the knife?” she asked abruptly. 

Rena touched her forearm, “The same place it was last night, my lady.”

“And why do you have it?” The girl didn’t seem to take offense to the bluntness of her questions, but answered readily, her demeanor calm.

“Hart forgot it in my room. Seeing the two of you together…he was overwhelmed. I couldn’t leave it there. The maids might see. All my things are being packed up and moved—either for the journey to Storm’s End or into our bridal chamber. I would have given it back to him yesterday except…”

“There wasn’t a private moment where you could,” Arya finished for her. She’d heard Hart’s logic on the matter. The girl nodded and a light breeze caught at her unbound hair. She caught at it, looping and tying her long hair into an untidy knot at her shoulder. 

“I wanted you to know that I knew, my lady. I’d not meant anything else by it. If I’ve caused offense or concern, I’m sorry. It was unintended.” She studied Arya avidly, bright eyes roving her face, “It’s not obvious. You’re not that like him on the surface,” she offered suddenly, “He’s worried about that. And maybe I’m the only person who can see it because I’m the only one who knows who doesn’t already know _you_.”

Arya’s eyebrow rose, cynically. 

Rena’s eyes crinkled, “Well, now you’re _trying_ to make me see a resemblance,” a teasing smile playing at her lips. “I’m not saying one isn’t _there_ —when I’m looking, I can see flashes of him in the way you tilt your chin and in that arch of your eyebrow. And, certainly, in the colour of your eyes. I’m sure there’s other ways I’ll find him in you too if we’ve the chance to know one another better. But what’s important right now is that anyone at a distance, who doesn’t already know _won’t_ see it. At least not right away. Your titles are also a distraction, my lady. Your individual lives too wildly divergent.”

Arya’s hands were clasped behind her as she clarified, “ _If_ we’ve the chance to know one another better?”

“I’d never stand in the way of it, my lady. I think knowing you would help him gain a clearer sense of what he’s capable of. He’s strong and smart and confident but there’s this hidden part of him that most don’t see that isn’t quite certain he’s _enough_.”

That observation struck Arya hard. If anything had become clear to her over the past weeks it was that both Gendry and herself struggled with that notion: of not believing themselves ‘enough.’ It had cost them each the other multiple times. She didn’t want the same for their son. 

Rena continued to muse, “I think that’s going to be my job, really. As his lady? Making him feel he’s enough. He already does that for me. Did from the moment Hero loped up to me right here, with Hart chasing after him.” She smiled at the memory, then shook off the reverie, her eyes meeting Arya’s.

“No one can make someone else whole. It’s folly to think you can,” Arya interjected.

Rena nodded, “I agree with you. But you can’t deny, my lady, that having someone in your corner believing in you makes worlds of difference.”

She couldn’t deny it. She’d always known Jon did. And then, later…Gendry. 

Rena shrugged, off-handedly, “Maybe all I mean to say, my lady, is that the people you bring into your life are like ingredients in a tonic. Whether you mix something helpful, harmless, or poison depends entirely on the composition. Hart and I: we’re a good mixture. He brings out my best qualities and I bring out his.”

The two women regarded one another in penetrating silence for a spell. When it broke, Arya’s assessment of her was blunt and to the point, “I think you’re too good to be true.”

The corners of Rena’s mouth twisted upwards, “I’ve no way to counter that, my lady. The only way I can prove myself to you is time. Same as you will to me.”

It was a simple enough statement and it was uttered softly, but somehow it rang across the distance between them like a vow. It wasn’t a dare or a barb; an incitement or a challenge. It was a truth. Rena would prove herself to Arya. Arya would prove herself to Rena. And Hart. And Gendry. Not that she might. Not that she could try. It was the sublime and serene confidence of the assertion that bolstered her: _I will._ We will. _That_ was this girl’s power: self-empowerment. She wasn’t seeking-out power elsewhere as so many others did—striving to gather and hoard it close. Instead, her quiet confidence imbued others with the same and, moreover, encouraged the further distribution of it. It was a rare gift. One Hart would benefit greatly from. Arya felt the last tendrils of her disquiet about the girl abate. 

Hero trotted into the glade, happily snuffling against both of them in turn, and it was as if the entire godswood exhaled and relaxed. 

“I should leave you to your prayers,” Arya said, moving to depart, “You’ve a busy day ahead. I wish you every happiness, Lady Rena.”

Rena’s face caught the rays of the rising sun, her eyes ashine, “Every day I’ve known him I’ve grown happier, my lady. Today will be the least happy of those yet to come.”

Her heedless optimism brought Arya to a standstill. She couldn’t hold back a final truth of her own, and spoke gravely, “That’s not been my experience, Lady Rena. You and Hart are the children of Spring. You see possibility and hope everywhere. I fought to keep the world from passing into cruelest winter and endless night. But Winter _is_ Coming.”

“Did you ever give that much thought, my lady?” Rena meditated, “You’re right, of course. But no one’s claimed the opposite and it’s just as true—you, yourself, _made_ it true. A spark in the darkness. A new Spring was taking root at the very moment you abolished an endless Winter. Who’s to say that the gods aren’t planning a long, fruitful Summer and a bountiful prolonged harvest? Winters always do come—but perhaps the next will be short and more temperate than the last.” With a curtsy to Arya she beckoned Hero to her with a snap of her fingers and the pair of them rustled away through the grass back to the castle. Arya pondered her words under the watchful gaze of the heart-tree until the first servants arrived and chivvied her away so the wedding ceremony preparations could commence.


	11. Forest Love & Feathered Beds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rena and Hart wed and sail to the Stormlands to begin their life together.  
> Arya and Gendry find a potential solution that sets them on the King's Road, together, headed south.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Going forward, some of you might wish to have a clearer picture of Rena’s family-of-origin. I’ve made her the eldest child of Brandon Tallhart and Erena Glover and given her three younger brothers: Bran, Galbart, and Leodric. At this point in the story, Rena is (like Hart) 16, Bran 15, Bart 13, Odri 9. It doesn’t exactly matter to the plot or navigability of the story, but it provides some background context for who she is that I thought some might find interesting.

#### The Wedding Night

There would be no bedding ceremony. Instead, after eating and drinking their fill and receiving more blessings and good wishes than they could remember, the happy couple rose from the high table to cheers and a cacophony of assorted ribald toasts, and took their leave. Arya watched them go from her place between Sansa and Jon. Gendry’s eye swiveled briefly to hers from farther along the table, formality fixed upon his features. She, too, kept her face impassive: but lust kindled. It was like that time at the Dragon Pit council when they’d blanked one another, pretending no connection existed between them. That blankness had been a defense against one another then—trying to demonstrate to each other how very much they _didn’t_ care. Now, it disguised something infinitely sweeter from the wider world. Jon was seated at her left. He leaned nearer to her, remarking, “She looks as merry and eager as the lad does. Expect they’ll have a good night.”

Arya raised her cup in a silent toast that his words might ring true, before taking a large sip. “How long before you go?” she asked.

“Day after next, most likely,” Jon replied. “You’ve things in-hand well-enough. ‘Spect you’d have said if they weren’t. You know where I’ll be. And you’re always welcome. Though I’ve my doubts you’ll stomach being in the North for long.”

“Bran’s sent a raven,” Arya relayed, “Says he wants to see me.”

“And Her Grace won’t object?” Jon asked, his eyes scanning the hall; dancing was beginning to break out. 

Arya answered with a snort and a shake of her head, “So what if she did? It works in her favor, actually: buys us all more time.”

“Us all?” Jon asked leadingly, his mouth curving upwards.

“Us,” she confirmed, “All.” A real smile lit her face as she looked at her favourite brother. It was safe enough to smile directly at him and let the fact of her love shine out—so long as she gazed _only_ at him. _They’d_ never hidden how much they cared about one another from anyone. 

Jon placed one hand against the side of her head and tilted her closer, pressing a brotherly kiss to her temple. “I’m glad,” he muttered into her ear, before pulling away. “And the pup?” he asked, watching the circling lines of the dance.

“Was promised time and discretion. Which he’ll have,” she decreed decidedly. She couldn’t help glancing over at Sansa. Today’s festivities had brought out the best in her; she was in her element. It was clear that she’d been liberally enjoying the wine and was now leaning back in her chair with her head resting against Yara’s shoulder, her usual rigidity set aside. Her features were unusually soft: contented and warm. The pair played absently with one another’s fingers as they spoke quietly together. Yara’s expression was equally tame—though more playful. Arya looked back at Jon, her eyes hard as steel, “That’s what’s at risk should things go otherwise,” she added meaningfully, “And she knows it.”

Jon sucked a breath between his teeth. “She’s vicious too. Don’t push her.”

“I won’t,” Arya promised, “So long as she doesn’t push first.”

~

She came apart a half-dozen times in Gendry’s arms that night. He watched her with as much adoration in his eyes as he had their first night together—as if she were something miraculous that would certainly disappear if ever his gaze wavered. His eyes devouring her with such intensity did as much for her as his hands, his lips, and his cock. She reveled in every touch, every taste, every sweep of his gaze across her body. She’d learned to be quiet in her ecstasy—her soundless, open-mouthed quaking seeming to make Gendry impulsively unwary. “I wish you’d wail,” he’d gritted against her ear, hips pounding into her, pushing her towards another apex, “I like hearing how I make you feel.” She’d wanted to, but stubbornly compromised and crushed his mouth over hers, sucking his tongue into her mouth before shouting her release down his throat. She’d swallowed his groaning-cry, in turn; his hips juddering into hers, the heat of him exploding inside her. 

They were still using his bedchamber—the guest quarters provided better cover—Arya’s presence could be explained in the corridors there far easier than his could be explained in the main keep—particularly on _this_ night, when his sole obvious reason for being there was fully occupied in the bridal chamber. 

“Gods! I hope they’re having as much fun as we are,” Arya breathed, collapsing onto the bed, winded. Gendry looked sideways at her. 

“I don’t much want to think too hard about what _they’re_ doing right now, Arya,” he remarked, drily.

“I suppose it’s different for you,” she acknowledged, swiping strangling hair from her brow, “I know I gave birth to him—that he’s my child—but he _was **your**_ child. You’ll always see him that way. I’ll know him now—as a man grown and wed. It’s different.”

Gendry thought she was probably right about that, though it would always make him sad that she’d never known the little boy who, laughing and tottering wildly across the Round Hall, made a beeline for his open arms when he was first learning to walk. Who’d picked up a sword before he’d even learned to stand. Who’d asked him for “just one more, Da” when he’d share his love of her in fireside bedtime stories. “Felt good though, earlier, didn’t it?” he confided, “Watching them look at each other as she walked to him in the godswood? The light in their eyes? She loves him. He loves her. I wanted him to find that. And be able to claim it.” 

Arya studied his face as he relived the memory. It _was_ beautiful: the two young ones—hearts in their eyes—gleaming in the torchlight as they beheld one another. The way Hart had spoken his vows low and serious while Rena answered with a toss of her head and a gentle, smiling certitude. The way Lady Tallhart had wept silently with happiness; the way her husband had wrapped an arm about her shoulders to comfort her—his smile indulgent and endearing. Arya thought as she studied them that if they were Rena’s models for marital love, Hart was likely going to be fine. And then, of course, there’d been Gendry’s face as he responded to the Septon’s question and watched the pair swear their oaths to one another. He was so achingly invested in Hart’s happiness that it imbued his features with a radiant warmth, making him shine bright as the moon in the torchlight. She’d stood with Sansa and Yara and Jon then, wishing she could have taken his hand in hers; she did so now, bringing his hand to her lips; kissing the back of it.  
He looked over at her surprised, as if returning from a reverie, “I was just thinking of when he was little.”

“Tell me,” she said, snuggling herself down beside him, under his arm. 

He could now. They were both sated—for the time being—and this had become their pattern: love, talk, love, sleep, repeat. As he’d shared stories of her with their son, he could now share stories of their son with _her_. “Well…,” he began, “when he was four….”

~

Hours later, as he lay sleeping beside her, Gendry’s words turned themselves over in Arya’s mind. He’d imparted amusing anecdotes and tales both harrowing and poignant from the chronicle of their son’s childhood. She liked hearing them. They added colour and texture to the picture of the boy who was slowly but steadily being revealed to her. And she could clearly see elements of her own personality coming through in some of the stories he’d related. She sighed. She refused to allow herself to wallow in the regret of what she’d missed. If she’d done differently, she’d have done them all different damage. She wouldn’t ever know if that might have been better or worse. From what she’d seen of Hart so far, she could only believe it would have been worse. 

From the darkness came Gendry’s voice, thick and raspy, “You’re thinking too loud.” His eyes didn’t open, but the hand that had lain upon her hip began stroking a slow path up her side and down her arm; a knowing smile pulling at his mouth.

“You enjoyed raising him.” It wasn’t something she’d just learned—Hart himself was evidence of it. Every single one of his actions, interactions and articulated thoughts spoke plainly of having been raised by someone who cared. It wasn’t quite a question, but it also wasn’t… _not_.

Gendry’s eyes slit open. She was watching him: guileless and inquisitive, but in want of an answer. He nodded, solemnly.

Arya bit her lower lip and looked away. She wanted to ask this _right_. “The other night. In the forge. Before we’d even considered… _anything_. You’d thought about us having another.” 

Fully awake now, Gendry pulled himself up against the head of the bed. Arya’s eyes darted upwards to meet his quickly and then away again. Whatever she was going to say made her nervous. That made him nervous. She was never nervous. Imperious. Bold. Irritated. Goading. Teasing. Even apologetic. But never openly nervous. He cleared his throat, “If you’ll remember, milady, …I thought about how we might **_not_** make another child,” he corrected her, lightly. 

A smile flickered briefly at her lips. He thought that seemed promising so he went on, “I think what I said was more along the lines of _your sister_ wanting us to have another child.” Had Sansa raised such a proposal with her? That possessive feeling he’d felt during their previous night’s conversation was stealing its way back into his chest. She’d said she didn’t want to marry anyone. Or have a child with someone else. But was that other option—the one _his_ confusion and anger had conjured—now on the table? The thought seized his gullet. He _couldn’t_ do that. He’d never leave a child of his unnamed and unclaimed; raised apart from him; even for her. “Are you taking the…,” he began hesitantly.

She nodded fervently, “Every night before I come here. I go to my rooms, make tea, and disorder the bed. But Gendry…,” her eyes met his imploringly, “it’s like how we talked last night about being wed. We can’t not talk about this. If it’s something you…?”

He shook his head at her and she trailed off. “It’s the same answer, Arya. I’d never not want it if you did. And part of me will always regret you not being here to raise him with me. But that’s the thing: I’d never want to have a child I couldn’t raise. You told me once that you could be my family.”

“And you said I couldn’t,” she sounded sulky and indignant. 

That it was still a disappointment—and continued to rankle her even after all these years—made him smile. He cupped her cheek in his hand and informed her insistently, “And you proved me wrong by giving me one instead. It’s the greatest gift anyone’s ever given me: titles, keeps and the Baratheon name included.” Her eyes were wide-shadowed pools of feeling looking up at him. “Is it something _you_ want? Not for Sansa. Not for the North. Not because there’s always supposed to be a Stark in Winterfell. And not because you know I’d want it. There isn’t a child coming now and there never needs to be. Does Arya Stark _want_ to have another child and raise it?”

She held his eyes and he could see the answer written clear. Her face held the same tender, empathetic, regret it had on the day she’d refused his proposal. He understood that look now. “No,” she replied, “I don’t.” 

“Then that’s settled.” He pulled her close and settled back against the pillows, his arm wrapped around her. 

She pushed away from him, though, and sat up, pulling her knees up so she could rest her chin on them. “It’s not enough just to say that, Gendry. I’d like you to understand why.”  
“You don’t need to explain it, Arya. I was with you when you gave birth to him. I’d no comprehension of what that entailed until you did it. If it were me in your place, even with the knowledge I have of the joy beyond, I’m not sure I’d choose to put myself through that again.”

That observation was more than she’d hoped. “Birthing is…a part…of why. But if it were _just_ that, I’ve survived far worse.” He was looking at her sidelong. She took a breath and continued, “You messed everything up.” His eyebrows rose, but she barged on, “I’d made it all that time without ever really _wanting_ anyone. And then you rode in all grown and strong and confident and made me want things I’d never wanted before. Or at least, made me realize I might want them _with you_. And after… _that_ scared me worse, in some ways, than the dead.”

She’d been speaking to the sheets, picking at the nubs on them unthinkingly, her voice becoming rushed, “I never explained to you how…he’s only here because he’s yours. If he’d been anyone else’s…”

“Stop, Arya,” Gendry said, his hand impulsively reaching out and capturing hers, “Stop. It’s just the one thing matters. Are you sorry you had him? Do you regret his existence?” He was certain he already knew the answer—he’d never have dared asked the question elsewise—knew even now as the words left his lips that if he was wrong it was going to break him. 

“No!” her tone was vehemently indignant, her eyes aghast: “I don’t.” With complete conviction she insisted, “He’s _perfect_.”

The awe in her tone at the summation made Gendry feel extraordinary—and relieved. He’d done well, in her eyes, with their boy. _She_ thought _he_ was perfect. Steady and sure, he asked, “Then _why_ , in the name of the gods, would we try to improve on perfection?”

The idiotic simplicity of his retort calmed her at once. She snuggled under his arm like a wriggling puppy and he chuckled at the relief and happiness that suffused her features. Gendry couldn’t help asking, “If there hadn’t been everything else…the wights, the Others, all the loss and pain of it. If it had just been you and I…if you’d been just a girl with a sword and I’d been a blacksmith…d’you think…maybe…we’d have…?”

She shook her head, “I don’t know. I’ll never be able to answer that. Our circumstances would have been so different. But I know I’d want _you_ the same.”

They both sat in quietude, thinking their own thoughts for a time. 

“You said something else, earlier…,” she mused, “About how he’s able to claim her.”

Gendry nodded. 

“You ever think about claiming me?”

“Every moment of every day. And every chance I get each night,” he replied, ogling her blatantly. 

She punched him in the arm—smiling—then asked, “D’you ever think about how you already have?”

His brow rose. 

Arya straddled his legs, her fingers trailing through the hair on his chest and along the lines of his muscles, “I wanted you and you were the first—the _only_ man—ever inside me.” One of her hands had lowered and was beginning to play with his rapidly rising cock. He leaned his head back against the headboard and she began to lick his neck, sucking occasionally at places she knew made him groan and biting into the join of his shoulder lightly. “That night. Our first. It was your seed dripping between my thighs— _your_ seed taking root inside me—as I drove my dagger into the heart of Death.” The image of it made his breath catch. It was provocative and deeply, _deeply_ arousing. Arya noticed: his cock twitched and swelled harder in her hand. She smiled against the hollow of his throat. She pumped him slowly and his eyes rolled back. He bit his lip. She shimmied down his legs and began tonguing him. His hands came to rest upon her head. When he moaned her name, she rose up again and, threading her fingers with his, lowered herself onto him. They both groaned as the heat of her engulfed him. “You’re the only man whose child I will ever carry—ever bear,” she whispered against his lips, her hips grinding against him, “The only man who can say he’s bedded the Hero of Winterfell, the Bringer of Dawn, the Circumnavigator of the World…”

“Arya Stark,” Gendry groaned, his hands finding her hips and holding her firmly against him as he stared into her eyes, “Your titles mean shit. But I’ll claim the rest. Being the only man you’ve loved and the only man who’ll ever get to make your body sing the way it sings for me: that’s more than enough.”

This time, when the tension crested, she let herself sing, unrestrained. 

~

Before Jon left, the three Starks met together in the godswood. Tendrils of fraught history wove them together into a rough triangle under the eyes of the heart-tree.

“I’m going south,” Arya declared, one eyebrow raised as if daring Sansa to object, “Bran asked and it makes sense.”

Sansa’s lips pursed, as she probed, “You just returned. In what ways does it make sense?”

“I’ve not seen him yet. I can travel nearly the entire way with the Stormlanders. I’ll give Jon instructions for my crew that he can take back to Hardhome: they can meet me in King’s Landing and bring me back when I’m ready to return. Won’t inconvenience you, Yara, or Bran.”

“Won’t inconvenience!” Sansa snapped, “You’re the heir to the North, Arya! You can’t just wander around all of Westeros like some vagabond.”

“Never stopped me before,” Arya countered dismissively then continued, “And about that: if I’m here, all those lords, ladies, and bannermen of yours are going to start sending suitors and hatching plans. I’ve noticed the ones that came for the wedding eyeing me up the past few days trying to figure out which relative of theirs might be agreeable. That one widow from Bear Island already suggested that if I shared _your_ tastes, she’d have me herself. I told her I didn’t—as it happened—but that I didn’t think you’d let me accept her proposal even if I did.” Seeing Sansa frowning at her, she exclaimed, “What? I thought you’d _like_ that I was showing ‘proper deference to your rank’ or whatever!” Sansa’s lips compressed like their mother’s used to do. Heaving a sigh and shaking her head wearily Arya concluded, “If I go, we get more time. More time to figure out what _could_ work.”

After a moment of silence Sansa asked archly, “Is there a reason you’re so eager to travel with the Stormlanders? Are you hoping to re-forge an alliance there? Are you considering _my_ plan?”

Jon made a disgusted sound, preempting Arya’s scowl. Both sisters turned their attention to him. “Leave off, Sansa. Her life’s hers. You pushing her at anything’s like as not to set her off in the opposite direction. You meddle and she’ll join Bran’s kingsguard.”

Arya’s eyes lit up. “I hadn’t considered that! It’s certainly an option,” she said brash and meditative. Jon chuckled. Sansa rolled her eyes. 

“Fine! But you’ll take some of our men. It’s expected. I’ll not have anyone thinking The North can’t defend itself. That’s what you travelling alone or under another lord’s protection would say.”

Arya’s conceded, “I can live with that. I said I’d be your heir and I’ll put up with _some_ minor inconvenience because of it. But don’t rope me into anything while I’m away. I won’t have you making deals about me behind my back. I wouldn’t honour any bargain you struck on my behalf without my say-so anyway.”

“I’m _quite_ aware of _that_ ,” Sansa replied, bitingly.

Jon and Arya exchanged a look and then switched their unequivocal gazes to the queen. 

“Cheer up, Your Grace,” Jon said, his mouth stretching slightly, “You’ll be the only queen in the castle again soon enough. You get on better that way. Competition makes you petty and cross.”

Sansa raised her eyes to his, “I wish you’d both get over yourselves. All I’ve done…”

“Is for The North,” both Arya and Jon finished with her in chorus. 

“Doesn’t that ever get a bit tired, Sansa?” Jon asked, “You’d have found a way to make an heir for the North yourself if The North really mattered to you as much as you say. If everything you do is for The North and House Stark, then preserving both would have been top of your list. But it wasn’t. You fell in love with someone and that won out. Love was the death of duty,” he held up a hand as Sansa’s bone-chilling rage began to freeze the air between them. “It’s no criticism. I’ve failed the same. But Arya needn’t pay the price for the gap between your dereliction of duty and your ambition. She’s her own duties and ambitions to attend to. They’re as vital—likely more—than yours.” 

The sound of a crow broke the cold and unpleasant silence gathering amongst them. Arya appreciated Jon’s support; it was why she’d wanted to have this conversation while he was still here. But she didn’t want his words to goad Sansa into actions that might put Hart at risk. For the first time in her life she felt moved to be a peacemaker rather than a settler of accounts. 

“All I need is time to understand the lay of the land. Of the lands. This will suit. Maybe other options will present themselves along the way. Sometimes you find the key that you need by accident. Sometimes, someone gives it to you. Sometimes you’re already holding the keys in your hand and it’s the lock you need to look at differently.”

Sansa’s blue eyes defrosted just a little. “I’ve no quarrel with you seeing Bran. Sometimes speaking with him provides…morsels of insight.”

All three blew out snorts of ironic acknowledgement at that particular truth. 

“But don’t just sail away again for another sixteen years, Arya,” she added pointedly.

“I don’t intend to,” she replied, seriously, “Like Jon said, I’ve other duties—long neglected—that need attending to.”

~

#### On The Road to White Harbour

On the morning of her fourth day as a woman wed, Rena bowed to the Queen before kissing her mother, father, and brothers goodbye. Mounting up, she settled herself carefully. She wanted to leave on horseback—to avoid the knowing leers of her younger brothers if nothing else—but expected she’d retire into the accompanying wheelhouse a few miles out and remain there for the next few days. Her mother had insisted on making a private wheelhouse available to her for the journey and Rena was glad—now, as she shifted gingerly in the saddle—that she had. She caught her mother’s eye and grimaced her gratitude. Sympathy creased her mother’s brow and understanding passed between them. Being ridden as thoroughly as she had been the past several days _did_ take its toll on her ability to ride horseback. She tucked the sly smile that threatened the corners of her lips away—she’d done her own fair share of the riding. Regardless, it all exacerbated her present discomfort. And there were other adjustments to be made too. She’d had herself laced into her stays tighter than was usual; she’d felt the telltale signs of her flowering—a bit earlier than she’d anticipated—making her breasts swollen and tender. The midwives and healers she’d worked alongside at Winterfell had passed along a lot of advice in the days before her wedding. They’d warned her that coupling could wreak havoc with the regularity of her flowering and not just if she got with child. Counting the days to herself she thought it likely fine if things sped up a little—believing roadside tents a less attractive option for coupling than the cabin of the ship they’d inhabit on the journey south. A tent’s walls were thin: people might _hear_ them. _That_ had surprised her—how much noise Hart wrung out of her while loving her senseless. In any event, the mess and discomfort of her flowering would be over by the time they reached White Harbor and she smiled to herself, imagining the ways she and Hart could pass the time alone once aboard ship. 

She hadn’t, however, factored in the unrelenting drive of the young husband for whom new and exciting terrain was just beginning to be explored. Their tent was pitched over the wheelhouse: allowing them as much privacy as could be achieved amid the small party of attendants and guards accompanying them to White Harbour. The wheelhouse was large enough to accommodate a dressing table at one end and Rena was seated at it, brushing her hair over her shoulder, preparing for bed as Hart came up behind her and bent to nuzzle her neck. Already shirtless, his breeches were unlaced and barely clinging to his hips. She smiled at him in the looking-glass and tilted her head so that he could have better access. His fingertips dropped, tracing themselves along the tops of her breasts. Rena hissed—and not with pleasure. Hart pulled back immediately, surprised. “What’s wrong?”

She shook her head at him. “Nothing. But I don’t think…” she looked up at him apologetically, “we’ve been so…vigorous. I think it’s going to bring on my flowering sooner than usual. And these…” she gestured to her breasts and grimaced, “…they _hurt_ , love. They ache like a sore tooth. That usually happens five days to a week out from when I flower.” 

Crestfallen, Hart asked, “So I can’t touch you? Or be with you for a week? Or more?” His disappointment was palpable. 

Rena gripped his hand tightly and shook her head at him, “I’m not saying that at all, love. I _want_ your hands on me. Much as these pain me, they seem to want holding. I just need you to understand if I react differently; if I need your touch to be different.”

Hart’s brow cleared and he pulled her to her feet. Wrapping his arms around her waist, he tugged her against him. She sighed and leaned back into him angling her face up to meet his. They kissed long and slow, tongues tangling together as their bodies swayed slightly. When they eventually pulled apart to catch their breaths, Hart rested his chin on her shoulder and peered at the image of them both, reflected in the glass. She looked so at peace, resting against him, eyes closed. He felt his cock begin to rise as he eyed the line of her neck, the divot at her throat, the swell of her breasts. She hadn’t undone her laces yet. He snagged one of the trailing ribbons and pulled. Her eyes widened as the stays fell apart and fell to the floor, causing her bosom to drop suddenly. Rena jammed her elbows into her sides reflexively, crossing her arms underneath, trying to thwart gravity’s pull. A plaintive moan escaped her and a line of pain appeared between her brows. 

Oh. She wasn’t exaggerating. The slightest movement _hurt_.

“Hart!” she’d stepped away from him, irritation marring her features, “I was going to leave them on—to hold everything—it’s the only way…” she blew out a frustrated breath and then inhaled again, sharply, as the movement brought eddies of pain. Hart hung his head, repentant; she’d never scolded him before. 

“I’m sorry,” he said, sincerely, one hand rubbing itself back through his hair, “You usually _do_ take them off and…I _like_ undressing you.”

“I know you do,” a small self-satisfied smirk appeared at the corner of her mouth, “And I _usually_ like you doing it. We’ve a lot about one another to still get used to.”

She clutched one arm under her breasts, as if holding them up would somehow alleviate the ache. Hart’s hands itched to reach out and fondle her. He hadn’t known that he’d find her breasts as endlessly captivating as he did. She was very well-endowed and he loved how it felt: molding her. “I’m sorry,” he apologized, utterly sincere, “Come here. I’ll hold them for you. Promise I’ll be gentle.” 

He looked up at her from under his brow and he looked so suggestively remorseful that she couldn’t help a snort of amusement escaping her. “I’m _certain_ you’ll hold them. You can’t seem to get enough of them. It’s the gentle part I’m skeptical of.”

Hart took her by the hand and tugged her back against him. One hand spread itself open across her stomach as the other began tracing lines up and down the arm that braced her breasts. They were both facing the mirror again and she was watching him sidelong in the glass. Raising her face to his again, she sought his lips. She liked this type of apology. Delving his tongue into her mouth, they tangled together. She leaned closer into him. The hand that had been tracing her arm deftly began caressing her flanks through her shift. This made her shiver, occasionally, and each time she trembled, the arm he’d fastened around her waist tightened imperceptibly, drawing her ever more firmly against him. When he broke their kiss, her right arm snaked itself up, wrapping around the back of his neck, urging him to appreciate her neck. He obliged. 

Rena observed herself, clutched in her husband’s embrace, heavy-lidded with desire, gazing at the pair of them in the looking-glass. For an intensely gratifying moment, Hart paused his worship of her neck and, heavy-lidded himself, gazed back. One eyebrow lifted—in almost a dare—he brought his hand swiftly up her body to capture her right breast. His gaze in the mirror didn’t waver for an instant as he did so and she gasped when he clutched her—lifting her, cupping her—the heat of his hand quelling the ache that bloomed and dissipated as he began kneading her. Rena mewled like a kitten as his other hand followed the path of the first, clutching and beginning his assault on her other breast. She couldn’t take her eyes off his hands in the glass. Each time he molded and massaged her, she felt the ache smart and fade as tendrils of longing pulled at her core. 

“This okay?” he whispered into her ear, “Am I hurting you?”

Rena’s neck arched against his shoulder, a movement that only pushed her chest more aggressively into his grasp. Her reply was breathily awestruck, “Hurts _so good_.”

Hart found himself rock-hard in an instant. He groaned and the vibration of it made her squirm against him. Hart couldn’t take his eyes off her face in the glass, the way she watched what he was doing to her—the way she wantonly responded—the way he looked watching her writhe against him. “Take your shift off,” he whispered into her ear, making her shiver again with the heat in his voice, “I’ll hold them until you get it high enough, I won’t let go,” he promised, “I won’t let them fall. Won’t let them pain you.” He wanted to be able to see all of her.

Gathering the fabric of her shift in her hands, she pulled it upward. When the bulk of it was just below her breasts, Hart quickly crisscrossed his hands across her body and slipped under the fabric, cradling her breasts securely, as she pulled it up and cast it off over her head. As the full-heat of his bare hands—unimpeded by cloth—gripped her tight, Rena purred and arched back against him again, her wrists locking behind his head. 

“Open your eyes and look at us,” Hart instructed. 

She obeyed and the intensity in his eyes made her suddenly deeply aware of the slick emptiness between her thighs.

“Gods, you’re beautiful!” Hart breathed against her ear. A profoundly pleasant shudder ran over her. “I don’t want to let go of you. Not ever. Help me get these off,” he requested, meaning his breeches, “I want to have you like this. So we can watch each other in the glass.”

The idea sent a thrill through her. He was very…commanding…tonight. She liked it. Was a little surprised _how much_ she liked it. Each time together had been different—but always cautiously attentive, curious and enthusiastic. The curiosity, attentiveness and enthusiasm remained, but it seemed caution was beginning to take a backseat. Rena found the change arousing. She slipped her hands behind her and tugged his breeches down over his hips. They quickly fell to his ankles and he was able to toe himself out of them without letting go of her breasts. He leaned into her again and she could feel the smooth hardness of him against her backside. She leaned forward a little and spread her legs, encouraging.

“Do you want me?” he asked, still palming her breasts, thumbs flicking her nipples. 

“Yes!” she gasped, arching back into him, eyes fluttering closed, one of her hands descending to the curls at her center.

His hands froze, their movement on her a caution, “No, Rena. Don’t. Not yet. Look at me.”

As her eyes met his in the glass again, she protested, “I need to, love.” 

“No.” His grey eyes were unyielding iron. “Not before I say.” 

She was throbbing with want of him, but she bit the inside of her cheek and nodded at him slowly, as if mesmerized. Removing her hand, she threaded it back up into the hair at the nape of his neck instead. 

“Good girl,” he murmured. Rena felt herself somehow grow even slicker. Her heartbeat quickening.

“Put your foot on the stool and keep your eyes on the glass. I want to watch you watch the arc of your body as I take you. I want you to see how beautiful you are when I do it. I promise I’ve got you; I won’t let you fall.

Shifting the stool slightly to the right with her foot, she did as he’d bade her. She could see her arousal glistening in the hair between her legs. She was familiar enough with the geography of herself by touch—and she’d seen any number of women giving birth. But this would be a different intimacy. The butterflies in her belly swirled more frantically. Fingers continuing to pluck lightly at her nipple, Hart slid one hand away to direct himself; drew his hips back and then pressed forward. Rena’s mouth opened, gasping, as he slowly sheathed himself. “See how you take me in?” he muttered into her ear, “How hungry your body is for mine?” Her hips bucked and his free hand captured hers, pressing it open across her stomach as he pulled her hips back flush against his. “Feel that?” he asked. She ground herself against him. “This is where I’m meant to be. Wrap yourself around me, show me you want me here.”

Rena was breathing hard, chest heaving. She wanted to move, but he was holding her too tight. “How?”

“You know,” he insisted, flexing ever so slightly inside her. 

Oh. Rena’s body responded with a clenching flex of its own: pulse and release.

“Good girl,” Hart whispered against her ear, “Do it again.”

Each time she’d stroke him with her inner walls he’d respond with a flick of his hips and a tight massage of her breast until both their bodies were undulating like waves on an ocean in the glass before them. Her face and neck were flushed and she was panting with want, “Please, love!” she begged, “I want…I want…”

“You want me to let you touch yourself?”

“Yes!”

“Not yet.”

A whining keen escaped her as she locked eyes with him in the glass. “I’ll let you,” he assured her, between thrusts, “Very soon. And as soon as I do—as soon as your fingertips can go where you want them, I want you to come as hard as you can. Will you do that for me? Do you want that?”

“Yes!” she moaned, “Please, love.”

“Promise you won’t look away.”

“I promise!”

“You promise what?”

“I…won’t…look away!” she gasped.

Hart thrust inside her a handful more times and he could see she was holding on—barely—searching his reflection in the glass for the slightest sign that she could have what she wanted. She was trembling so hard he was certain she was going to collapse the minute she peaked. It made him feel powerful. 

He pumped harder.

“Hart! Please!” she begged again. One of her fists was clenched tight in his hair, the other he held pressed against her stomach.

“Now,” he ordered, shifting his hand to her hip, watching with fascination as her fingers flew to the place above where they were joined, tapping rapidly. Her body went taut in his arms in seconds and a strangled shriek choked itself out of her throat as she fluttered around him. “ _Such_ a good girl,” he praised, continuing to drive himself into her. She’d kept her promise: slit-eyed, she was watching herself fall apart in the glass—the way her body trembled and flushed—his cock driving between her folds. The moment her knees gave way, Hart scooped her into his arms and carried her across the tiny distance to the bed. Laying her gently down, he stood between her legs: splayed wide in further welcome of him. She was still trembling. His hands began to trace themselves over her stomach and breasts again. 

“You’re so beautiful, my lady. Especially when I love you. Did you like seeing us that way? Watching me touch you? Seeing me move in you? Did it feel good?”

“Yes,” she whispered, amber eyes gleaming up at him, eyes shining and blushing furiously. She liked the way he said ‘my lady’ now that they were properly wedded and bedded—with just the faintest hint of an emphasis on the ‘my.’ He’d made her feel _so good_. And as he looked at her now, his gaze overflowing with love, she spread her legs wider and urged him closer, tapping the back of his thigh with the heel of her foot. 

“You want more?”

She nodded, her lips curling upwards in a sly smile.

“Good girl. Tell me when you’re close.”

He continued muttering endearments at her: how wonderful it felt being inside her, how warm and tight and wet she was, how the only place he ever wanted to be was in her arms and between her thighs, how lucky he was to have her, how much of a man she made him feel…

“Hart!” Rena gasped, “I’m going to…”

“Go ahead. That’s my good girl. I… _Gods_!,” he groaned against her shoulder, spending himself inside her as she fluttered and convulsed beneath him. 

After their breathing had slowed, and they’d somehow found their way under the covers, Hart asked, suddenly apprehensive, “You were sore before. Does everything feel okay?” Rena stretched languorously before curling into his side, huffing as she manually hefted her left breast on top of his rib-cage so that she wasn’t squashing it. The dead weight always surprised him, and Rena’s casual vexation as she heaved her breasts into place always made him smile. He liked the feel of her lying against him. 

“I’m good,” she replied, the words seeming to trigger a thought. “What made you keep saying that?” she inquired, one finger tracing his lips. He closed his teeth lightly over it. She giggled.

“Saying what?”

Her eyebrows rose, incredulous, “You didn’t realize?” A shiver raced down her spine at the intensity of his eyes in her memory. Feeling, quite suddenly shy, she explained, “You kept telling me I was a good girl. As if what I did pleased you.” 

“You do,” he replied, quite matter-of-factly, “Everything about you does. More than you know.”

“Good…I mean, I’m glad. But what I mean is…I think you saying that made me _want_ to do what you wanted me to do.”

Hart turned, earnest and anxiously wide-eyed, “It wasn’t…I hope…you didn’t feel like I was pressuring or…? What I was doing? It wasn’t anything you didn’t want?”

Rena shook her head at him in firm denial. “I want to give you everything, love—every part of me—as much of me as there is. But I don’t think I ever want you to expect that I will,” she mused, “I’m not sure that even makes any sense, but it’s how I feel. It surprised me—you being lordly with me…but I _liked it_ ,” her eyes twinkled at him over the confession.

Warmth blossomed in Hart’s belly. “I liked it too,” he asserted. The mental catalogue of things she liked kept growing and adding to it was a task he thought he’d never tire of. It gave him an idea. 

“Rena? Can you make a list tomorrow? Of things you _don’t_ want, ever? I’ll think about mine as well. If there’s going to be some days ahead when you aren’t comfortable loving, or ways you can think of that you _don’t want_ to be loved, I’d like to know. And we can spend those times talking about things like this instead. I know we’ll probably stumble into some we haven’t thought of in the heat of things, regardless, but…”

She silenced him with a probing kiss. “I’ll come up with a list, love. But I’d like to hear more about _how good I am_ before we sleep.”

Rolling her back into the mattress, Hart chuckled, “Good girl.” 

Rena’s peal of delighted laughter rang-out across the encampment before it was swallowed by the night and her husband’s ravenous mouth. 

~

#### On The Road to King’s Landing

Following Hart’s wedding, Gendry’s time fluctuated between irritated deprivation during the day and blissful night-time gluttony when it came to Arya. Jon departed. Then Hart and Rena. And then his own retinue waited only for the preparation of hers. Sansa agreed it made sense for their parties to travel together. To all the world it appeared as if circumstances simply conspired to put Lady Stark on Lord Baratheon’s path. Gendry could accompany her south and it wouldn’t seem strange. To the wide world, he was headed that direction anyway. To those of his own retinue and hers—it looked as if they were becoming acquainted. As if they’d perhaps known of one another years ago, but were now clearly developing a friendship. None of his own party knew about their prior acquaintance—apart from Rawly—and only one or two of the men of Winterfell tasked with delivering Arya safely to her brother in King’s Landing were old enough to remember him working in the forges there before his ennoblement. To their minds, of course he’d have known who _she_ was, but the likelihood of _her_ knowing _him_ in any meaningful capacity was scant. She’d vanished, after all, shortly after he’d received his lordship and become anyone of consequence in the eyes of a Lady of Winterfell. 

“So, I think we should start…falling…in love?” Her voice had gone up uncertainly at the end when she’d made the suggestion, in his bed, the morning after she’d spoken to Sansa. The entire phrase felt foreign to her tongue. It was the type of ridiculous thing bards went on and on about. 

In reality, it was so out-of-character that Gendry pushed her away, then turned her forcibly back so that he could interrogate her face to face. He pulled a little on her hair and smoothed a thumb across her cheek demanding, “You’re _you_ , right? You’re not someone else wearing Arya’s face? And aren’t we already well-in? Falling’s got nothing to do with us.”

“I’m me,” she grinned at him, “I promise. I just thought…maybe…none of them know we knew each other before. Maybe as we travel south…we can start…courting.” Her eyebrow raised itself up, audaciously. 

Gendry’s mouth hung open; his expression incredulous. When he was able to find words he asked, “With the end being…?”

She shrugged, “I don’t know yet. But it’ll buy us time and an excuse to keep meeting. Once we’re on the road you could worry less about concealing how you feel all the time. I know you hate that. By the time we reach King’s Landing the seed would be planted with your men and mine. We can arrange the next step from there.”

“And Hart’s concerns about us all being together?”

“Rena doesn’t think it will be a problem. We see connections because we know they’re there and we’re looking. She made some fair points that morning we spoke. Most of the people left who _might_ figure it out are in King’s Landing. We would have to be careful if we were all together _there_ , I think,” she acknowledged. “In any case, he’ll have had some moons getting accustomed to what his new world looks like—it’s in so much flux right now he hasn’t had the space to even begin to process what it all means. He’ll be in his own home, making his life with his lady and you. He’ll likely have a better idea of what he might want from me by the close of my visit to King’s Landing…whenever that is.” And so, it was settled.

Each day they rode alongside one another, speaking of this and that, but mostly just enjoying the time together. They couldn’t have one another on the road. _That_ would get noticed. But as the days passed and they neared the Riverlands, Gendry could feel the repressed tension mounting between them. He thought others were starting to sense it too. Occasionally he caught one or another of his men exchanging a glance or a significant look whenever Arya rode off ahead of him, or he fell back to attend to some matter or other. 

Both had insisted that tents were unwieldy and unnecessary. It was full summer. They’d all be fine dining around a fire and sleeping under the stars. They’d done it before, long ago. The land was at peace now, the King’s Road was well-governed and in good repair, and the inns along it prospering. Sansa had protested about that at first. “I don’t have wagons of dresses and legions of personal attendants. And I don’t want them!” Arya’d argued, “A horse, a pack, and a bedroll are more than enough. I’ve not changed that much, Sansa!” She’d won out in the end.

What she _had_ regretted was leaving Nymeria again. “It doesn’t make sense to bring you to King’s Landing,” she’d told the wolf regretfully, petting her as they sat beside a heart-tree one afternoon, “That trip didn’t work out well for either of us the first time. I’d not ask you to make it again.” Nymeria had cocked her head at her, listening, before laying her head peaceably in her lap. Arya worried the wolf might be the key that would unravel everything. If she brought Nymeria with her, people might make a connection between Hart’s pet and hers. She was continually amazed that no one in the North appeared to have done so. She’d intended on sending Nymeria back beyond The Wall with Jon, but her direwolf had a mind of her own and had, shockingly, made her own peace with Sansa: a development that initially made Arya scowl. Hero prompted the shift. He’d approached the queen cavalierly and she’d patted him absently but kindly, stroking behind his ears and ruffling the fur at his nape. Nymeria took exception to this, and nosed her way between them. Sansa stopped her conversation, looked imperiously down at the elder wolf and without hesitation informed Nymeria, “I’m not certain _what_ you think you’re doing, but he was perfectly fine before you started interfering. If you’ll let me, I’d treat you the same, but don’t get cross and bite the hand that’s feeing you. If I _stop_ feeding you, you can do what you like.” The two of them had stared at one another for several moments before Nymeria sat on her haunches, peering up at Sansa. Sansa’d lowered her hand, slow and watchful, until it rested lightly on the top of Nymeria’s head. That had been the beginning. She was Arya’s wolf. But she and Sansa had an understanding. And so, she would stay at Winterfell. It didn’t trouble Arya as much as she’d first thought it would. It was clear Sansa drew strength from the wolf’s presence. _“Foils then,”_ the voice in Arya’s mind mused, _“One bears fruit, one lies fallow. One acts, one judges. One leaves, one stays. Meant to complement one another. Working together in strength. Shoring up one another’s deficiencies and weaknesses. As intended.”_ When that voice in her head came now it came in the cadence of the Moongarden: offering empathy and grace. As far as Sansa went that impulse towards grace also brought Arya consternation. There was such ample evidence to hand that made her mistrustful of her sister, her intentions, and her schemes. But Nymeria had never forsaken her—even when they weren’t together, they were linked by uncommon knowledge. She would choose to trust in that uncanny knowing now. 

One evening, about two weeks into their journey, Arya had finished eating and excused herself, disappearing into the trees to take care of personal matters, when across the fire one of Gendry’s men ventured to ask, “D’you fancy her, milord?” The rest of the men went quite silent. 

He didn’t take offense. It was a fair question. More to the point: he _definitely did_. And he _could_. Gendry raised his eyes to the other man’s and continued chewing his supper, his expression bland. One of his other men took it upon himself to elbow the questioner, roundly chiding, “What business is it of yours if he does or doesn’t? Forgive him, my lord, he’s too curious for his own good, this one!” he cuffed the man across the head. 

Gendry thought it funny how the rest of his men suddenly started prattling amongst themselves about nothing—like a flock of magpies. But Rawly wasn’t like the rest. He’d always had some special privileges as Hart’s closest friend and milk-brother. When the others had moved away and it was just the two of them, he asked under his breath, “You _do_ fancy her, don’t you Ser?”

Gendry allowed a quick and silent tilt of his chin in reply. He knew that Rawly knew. Knew he’d guessed. Hart had told him. The lad himself had never alluded to any of it with him before this moment. 

“What’s harder to tell, Ser,” Rawly ventured pensively, “is whether or not she fancies _you_. Least…that’s what everyone’s trying to suss out.”

Gendry felt his shoulders settle with relief. Their plan was working. “D’you think she might?” he asked Rawly, genuinely curious what the boy’s answer might be.

“There’s nothing I’ve seen that says she _doesn’t_ , Ser, but there’s not anything particular that says she _does_ neither.” So—he _had been_ looking. That was good. If he knew about their past and couldn’t tell, it meant people who didn’t know surely wouldn’t guess.

“Well, lad,” Gendry said, standing up and brushing his hands off, “I’d appreciate you telling me if you see any indication that she does.”

“I can do that, Ser,” Rawly agreed, heartily and ready-to-please, “You seem happier around her, and I hope you’ll forgive my saying so. I think everyone would like that to continue.”

“None more than I, lad.”

“You can lean in a bit,” Gendry muttered to her as they rode alongside one another the next day. 

“What do you mean?” Arya asked, bluntly.

“Lean in. Like you’d like to be closer to me.”

She snorted.

“The lad said you’re doing too good a job. They’re starting to think me a besotted fool and there’s you over there being all cold and intimidating.”

“That’s why you love me.”

Gendry snorted. “True. But if this story’s going to sell by the time we leave you in King’s Landing, you’ve got to give them something.”

She reached out suddenly and placed her hand on his forearm, her little finger stroking just above where the leather of his wrist-bracers ended. It was a warm day and he was riding in his shirtsleeves. The thrill of her touch after weeks without sent sparks shooting through his bloodstream. His eyes met hers. She smiled across at him, her expression playful. 

“You think they thought you besotted before, you should see your face now,” she teased.

He looked down at his saddle and rearranged his face. When he looked up again, he was smiling wide, his cheeks creased and his blue eyes sparkling like sun on the sea.   
“That’s not any better!” she chided him, laughter bubbling out of her. The men behind had caught the whiff of romance in the air. She could see them out of the corner of her eye shuffling, poking and otherwise drawing attention to their Lord’s exchange. 

Gendry bent his head toward her, “I’m no master of faces, like yourself, milady. I don’t think it knows how to do things different when you touch me.” 

Arya allowed the softness she felt to enter her eyes as she gazed back at him. He was right. She _did_ have to let herself lapse now and then. Give people moments they could point to that piece by piece would string themselves into the tale they wanted told. But she didn’t want to ever get too comfortable about it. Never too much. Never for too long. She still wanted privacy in their love. No matter where they wanted this to end up, she still craved that private, protected intimacy. She wasn’t soft and didn’t want to ever be perceived so. She was only ever soft, _sometimes_ , for _him_. 

Days passed. They could talk as they rode and sometimes that meant Arya sharing her adventures. As she did, sharing the experiences that brought her back to him, little by little, the precariousness Gendry had felt—those initial ripples her arrival had sent eddying through his life—began to still. They were both older, more confident in themselves and, this time, committed to one another. She wasn’t a lost child in want of an older brother and he wasn’t a bastard aspiring beyond his station. Nothing between them was unequal or one-sided: and he gloried in the freedom of it. 

~

#### On the Road to White Harbour II

When Rena’s flower came, spooning together in their cot, using the radiating warmth of Hart’s hands to soothe the cramping in her lower belly, they murmured together about what might come.

“She’ll just be the King’s sister the next time we see her, just as she was the Queen’s sister in the North. If their plan works, it’ll be clear to anyone with eyes that Da’s fallen for her.”

“And you’ll welcome her as what, love? A potential step-mother? There will be speculation. Will they wed? What happens if they have children? More children,” she added, delicately. That bothered her a little. It wasn’t his title she’d wedded—she’d wanted _him_ —but she wanted the life he’d expected to be able to give her. She knew it would bother him if he couldn’t provide it.

Hart’s hands pulled her closer against him. “Da told me they’d discussed that. While you were with your mother and the queen finalizing travel arrangements, we talked. They might wed eventually or they might not. But I’m it for them. They agreed. She doesn’t want to have another. And even if I wasn’t, the decree from King Bran clearly stated that I’m Da’s heir ‘superseding any other children of his blood—inside or outside wedlock’.” He paused and hummed, “I’d never really thought about that before. Those details being part of the terms of my legitimization, I mean. If he—or they—ever _did_ have another, I’d still outrank them. At least, I would in the Stormlands. In the North…”. If they _did_ have another, his sibling would take precedence there. But Da had appeared confident and resolved that their current decision would stand. 

Gratitude stole over Rena, and she felt the tightness in her chest loosen. _That_ was alright then. They’d be able to live the life they’d planned together regardless of what happened between his parents. 

Hart spoke again, his voice tinged with awed disbelief, “He said, that _she_ said, that I’m…perfect.” He’d felt as if the ground had dropped out from under his feet when Da told him. He’d been uncertain and reticent, and even downright skeptical of her at times and she somehow _admired_ him in spite of his keeping her at arm’s length since arriving at Winterfell. It had made his blood warm and tingly and he thought his heart grew larger in his chest with the knowledge. 

Rena’s delight was evident as she beamed up at him over her shoulder. “You are, love,” she confirmed, before tapping his cheek lightly, “But don’t go getting a swelled-head about it. Perfect people don’t focus on their own perfection.”

She could feel him shaking his head. “I’m not, though. Far from it. I’ve been bitter about some of this. Of what her coming back might mean. Of what her being here might take away from me. And the way they’re arranging things—I’m set to lose nothing—for nothing to change for you and I unless…”

When he didn’t continue Rena peeked back over her shoulder. He was biting his lower lip and thinking. “Unless you want it to?” she queried tentatively, “Do you worry about that? That you might want it to?”

He swallowed and nodded. “I want Storm’s End. It holds everything I’ve ever known and loved—or it will do once you get there—,” he added with a twinkle in his eye, “But I’ve learned so much in the North. Your people are there and I’d like stability for your brothers and the families they’ll have one day. I don’t know if me being who I am could do anything to help that. It might not. The North spent centuries trying to get free and then being folded back into wider Westeros time and again. How I’d ever manage governing two such radically different lands with their varied allegiances at such a distance from one another—or how I’d ever be permitted to do so is beyond me.”

“Dorne seems to have managed independence from within,” Rena observed, “For all practical purposes, even the Iron Islands belong more to the North now, than to the Six Kingdoms. And the Free Folk—though of course everyone considers _them_ a land apart,” she sighed, “Does any of it really matter? We’re all Westerosi.”

Hart chuckled into her ear, “Aren’t your family’s words ‘Proud and free’? You tell me: how important _is_ freedom to a Northerner’s pride? As for Dorne: only in its cultural traditions and leadership structure—otherwise it’s just as much a vassal as The Vale, The Reach, The Riverlands and The Stormlands. Based on what I’ve learned working alongside the queen these past years—the Iron Islands exists in a stalemate of sorts because of Yara’s _personal friendly relationship_ with the North: it’s a temporary truce moderated by Sansa and Bran’s kinship, not a permanent state of being. Either of them dies and the Iron Islands are likely to start raiding again. Sansa’s hopeful enough bonds will be forged during this time of peace—marriages, trade, and so forth—that The North won’t be as tempting a target for the Iron Born. But so much of it will depend upon who the Lords Paramount and council elect next for the Six Kingdoms. And the Free Folk are independent only because no one else wants the lands they have—cold and vast and full of ancient unknown threats as they are.”

Rena hummed thoughtfully and shrugged. “We can’t manage any of those things ourselves. All we can do is manage what’s in front of us. Your home—our home—the family we’ll have.” She clutched her own hands over his as a particularly jagged pain made itself known. She grimaced, “Hopefully soon,” she added under her breath.

Hart pressed a kiss against the nape of her neck. “You’re still sure? We can hold off awhile if you wanted. You could start taking it now.”

She shook her head, determined. “No, love. Maybe I will later. After we have one. Or two. Just so we can get our feet under us. Or…I might never take it.” Looking back over her shoulder she asked intently, “You won’t mind if…?”

“If you want to be pregnant for the rest of your life? That’s entirely up to you, my lady,” he smiled against her neck and, hearing the humor in his voice, she giggled. Teeth latching onto her earlobe Hart continued warningly, “But know that’s likely how it’s going to be if you _don’t_ take it—because of how much I want—how very much I _love_ —loving you, my lady.”

A gratified smile spread across her face and was checked, suddenly by another stabbing pain in her lower belly. Rena grouched, “The way _this_ feels _that_ sounds very agreeable to me right now. Even with knowing what birthing can bring: I’d get all of the discomfort out of the way at once instead of moon after moon after bloody moon.”

His palms pressed into her, thumbs smoothing and caressing, distracting her from the pain. “Then we’ll have to see what I can do about that as soon as practicable, my lady,” he promised, gently kissing her neck again.

~

As soon as was practicable was aboard ship. Rena thought the ship’s crew were likely laughing behind their hands at them. The surest sign that their passengers were _at it_ was Hero planted, sentinel-like, outside their berth’s door. The poor beast lay across the threshold each night and sat waiting for his people to allow him re-entry at least once a day. Hart was taking his husbandly duties very seriously. His wife wanted to be carrying their child and he would do his best to fulfill that desire…and any other she might have along the way.

Rena couldn’t fathom how she’d gotten so lucky. He was always solicitous of her pleasure. That alone was worth more to her than he could possibly know. She’d attended the births of whores, of women whose husbands clearly loathed them, and in one terrible instance: a birth where the girl had been forced and the child unwanted. Her heart broke for those women. Being with Hart, talking with him, falling asleep in his arms was always such a joy. He made her _so happy_. And she wanted to show him and all the world how much he did the same for her. A growing family was the best way she could think of to make their love manifest.

“Hart?” she whispered one night, tracing her fingers across his chest.

“Yes, my lady?” he sounded just on the verge of sleep.

“Loving you’s the best gift the gods ever granted me. I feel like it’s why I was born.”

Without opening his eyes, he nuzzled his lips into her hair, mumbling fervently, “For me too.” He clutched her closer and secure in each other’s arms, rocking gently upon the sea, they found their rest.

~

#### On The Road to King’s Landing II

Riding through the Riverlands, both Gendry and Arya found memories stirring. It became increasingly hard for Gendry not to gravitate toward her—and she to him—as they rode through the lands they’d once survived together. The pull of those memories was an invisible chain stringing them together making them feel as if they might need to hold one another’s backs against the darkness. Arya grew increasingly watchful at night and, instead of sleep, took to gazing across the embers to where Gendry lay. He always slept with his face angled toward her. Arya realized—a flood of heartfelt longing for him coursing through her suddenly one night—that he always had. Even back then. The sweetness of the realization brought the pricking of tears to her eyes. He’d loved her before he knew it—just as she had loved him: she was his sun and he was her sustenance. Each morning, their eyes would meet across the distance between them and each time he opened his blue eyes into hers and smiled reassuringly, Arya found herself clenching her thighs together, her physical need of him increasing with every day, every hour, every minute she couldn’t have him. This was harder than she’d thought it would be. Travelling together like this had worked fine when they hadn’t known the pleasure of one another. Now it brought a continual thirst she couldn’t slake. She cursed Sansa’s insistence on a guard. It meant that she couldn’t slip away—that both of them were so over-watched that trysting was impossible. 

Their studied flirtation had been noticed by all the men. Which was good. They’d wanted that. But there was a problem neither had foreseen: when they’d merely been indifferent travelling companions, they could ride ahead a little together and no one cared. But _now_ her honour was at stake, and although Gendry’s men seemed entirely predisposed to allow their Lord whatever liberties he might aspire to take with her—some of them gleefully wagering with one another about his odds of success—the men from Winterfell clearly did _not_. Their queen had charged them with delivering her sister safely to her brother in King’s Landing and no southron lord would be allowed to impose himself on their Lady—never mind that it was beginning to look as if their Lady might not mind his advances _one little bit_ and could take care of herself _just fine_ , thank you _very much_. Arya chaffed under their constant supervision. It was precisely what she’d always hoped to avoid. 

The frustration was getting to them. Gendry rode up beside her one afternoon and she inhaled deeply then scowled. 

“What’s wrong?” he asked, eyes darting along the side of the road, seeking whatever repelled her.

“You,” she fumed.

“Me?! What’ve I done?”

“The usual. Made me want you,” she hissed, “You’d think camping out and not bathing and horse sweat would mask it, but instead you just smell more like _you_.”

Gendry smirked, “Can’t help that, milady.”

Later, after they’d stopped briefly to water the horses and relieve themselves, Arya tossed him a bundle of cloth as she remounted. He caught it and his fingers recoiled: it was moist. The smell hit him next. He squashed the bundle into his fist, nostrils flaring as his wide eyes met hers—shocked. She smiled mockingly at him, “You didn’t take my complaint seriously earlier, my lord. Perhaps now you’ll _fully appreciate_ my suffering.” He was holding her recently worn smallclothes, and the scent of her arousal permeated the air. Gendry shifted uncomfortably in the saddle, stuffing the bundle into his pocket and rode ahead, his cheeks flushed.

His men muttered amongst themselves about how milord and milady seemed to be having a lover’s quarrel of some sort. The pair rode apart the rest of the day—sometimes one and then the other—spurring themselves furiously ahead for a time forcing their respective guards to keep pace. 

Across the fire that night as she again lay wakeful, Arya became aware of Gendry’s eyes glittering at her across the span of the fire. He’d shifted from his back onto his side and his eyes held hers. Mesmerized, she watched him bring the tormenting bundle of smallclothes to his nose and inhale deeply before noticing his other hand fumbling with the ties of his breeches. She clenched her thighs together tighter, feeling her own desire surging warm between them. Her eyes met his again and he tilted his chin at her encouraging her to do as he was. She sucked in a breath and cocked an eyebrow at him. He grinned daringly at her across the flames and took another sniff at her undergarments, his eyes rolling back in his head as if in bliss. Arya stifled a groan. If this was the _only_ way they could find some relief in each other she’d take it. Eyes locked on his she threaded her fingers under the waist of her own breeches and curled them into herself, startled as ever by how the very idea of him wanting her made her so wet so quickly. She bit her lower lip and watched as he slowly began tugging at himself. Their eyes never left one another’s faces as they strove to satisfy their need of one another silently. His jaw clenched, his brow lowered, and his gaze—though focused determinedly on hers—was growing distant. He was getting close. She worked harder at herself, fingers slick between her folds, circling over and over and over. Her breath hitched. Gendry caught the sound of it and she watched him fold his lips together, manfully repressing the groan that always accompanied his release as his fist tightened and his hips jerked. Seeing him manage it soundlessly ended her. With a quick flick of her fingers, she let go, lips falling open with a gust of breath as she shivered in pleasure, her toes curling. Someone rolled over in the grass somewhere behind her and she froze, a cold sweat overtaking her. Gendry’s eyes flicked over her head and then back to her. He shook his head. They hadn’t been caught. It wasn’t near enough, but it would be all they’d manage tonight. She pulled her hand from between her legs and held his eyes as she tongued her fingers clean. The approval on his face as she did so made her feel warm and beloved. As her heartrate slowed, she felt as if she finally might be able to sleep. She pursed her lips at him briefly—miming a kiss—and closed her eyes. It wasn’t enough. It wouldn’t ever _be_ enough. She’d have to find a way to have him properly at least once before they reached King’s Landing and their lives pulled them from each other once again.

~

They were a day’s ride from King’s Landing when she finally managed it. She felt prickly. The heat of the day pressing in on the entire party, Arya found herself kicking her horse ahead of the group. There was an inn just ahead that backed onto a stream and was shaded invitingly by willows. She could see a dense grove of trees beyond the inn. She pulled up abruptly and Gendry cantered up alongside her. “What if we give them a rest?” she asked, nodding in the direction of the inn. “It’s hot. The horses could do with cooling down. The men can have an ale or two…or three. If we each take a room and claim heat exhaustion maybe we can pretend we’re resting and steal away. I need you,” she whispered at him irritation writ plain, “Before tomorrow. It’ll be a moon at least until we’re even able to see each other again, let alone…” her mouth made a moue of displeasure. 

Gendry’s expression was darkly mirthful, “Thought it all out have you?” He shrugged, adding, “It’s worth trying. I need you too,” he confessed, under his breath.

His avowal made her heart-race and her mouth firmed in determination. The Winterfell captain reined-in just behind her and cleared his throat. “We’re stopping,” Arya declared, “I’m hot and weary.” An idea presented itself and she spoke frankly and unapologetically, "Women’s difficulties. I’ll take a room and we’ll stay here tonight.” The captain looked taken aback but nodded curtly and circled back to inform his men. Gendry waved his own captain—who had remained behind at a respectful distance—forward as he snorted, “Really? That’s your excuse?”

“Well, it’s true,” Arya argued, looking him dead in the eye, “ _This_ woman’s difficulties are that her smallclothes are continually damp with want and she’d rather have her bull between her thighs than this ruddy horse.”

Gendry choked as the captain appeared at his elbow, inquiring, “My Lord?”

“Lady Stark is tired and would like to stop here for the night. So, we will.” 

Rooms were procured and Arya disappeared into hers with alacrity. Gendry took a drink in the taproom with some of his men. Eventually, he left to take a piss and, as he busied himself with retying his flies, turned to find Arya shimmying down one of the willow trees that grew close against the inn. Grabbing his hand, she hissed at him, “You took too long. Come on! Let’s go.”

Gendry grinned, and hissed back, “Where’re we going?”

She dragged him off into the copse of trees behind the inn, checking back over her shoulder to make certain they weren’t spotted. When the privacy of the wood obscured them from view, she answered, “I barred my door and they’ll not likely to bother me before supper. But there’s no hope of you coming to my room in the night. That captain of Sansa’s will station someone. I want you _now_.” She shoved him up against a tree and kissed him thoroughly.

She tasted divine. Gendry couldn’t get enough of her—his tongue plundering her mouth and stealing her breath. She was clawing at the ties of his breeches and then his cock was in her hand and then suddenly, she was on her knees in front of him sucking him so far down her throat that he couldn’t respond in any other way than leaning back against the tree and breathing out a long, drawn out, “Fuuuuuuuk.” His fingers dug themselves into the bark. He looked down and she smirked up at him before swallowing him down again. Sweat broke out on his forehead. It had been too long. If she kept that up…he swore again. Bleated her name. She paused, looking up at him. He nodded and she rose, the pair of them trading places as he crowded her up against the tree, thrusting one strong hand down the front of her breeches and… _delving_. She was drenched. 

“I can see how this _is_ a difficulty, milady,” he murmured against her lips. “But I think I might just be making it worse.” 

She mewled as he dipped his fingers into her, massaging her. Her hips began to rotate and he kept working her as he used his other hand to loosen more of her ties. He’d thought to lift her and take her against the tree, but she’d need to lose the breeches altogether and that would mean losing her boots too. “I want you,” she was saying, “ _Now_ , Gendry.”

He wanted precisely the same thing. Gendry spun her around, grabbed her one hand in his and bracing them both against the oak tree used his other to bend her forward. One hard thrust and he was balls deep. Arya whimpered as he filled her. He pulled back and thrust forward again and she moaned: she was _so tight_ around him. He stilled momentarily advising, “I like hearing you, but if they catch us like this, I’m a dead man. I'll not stop, and that captain will skewer me sure as I’m skewering you.”

“Then why are you talking?” Arya admonished, “Fuck me.”

“As milady commands.” Brow furrowed in determination he went hard and shallow until she shoved a fist into her mouth to quiet herself and then he went slow and deep, savoring the feeling of her quivering around him. Her legs were shaking but he held tight to her hips and kept going. When she peaked the second time, he allowed himself to finish with her, leaning forward and biting the join of her neck and shoulder to stifle his own sounds. When he pulled out, he pressed her firmly up against the oak. She was trembling. He thought his body might be the only thing holding her up. “Did that fix milady’s troubles?” he inquired, brushing his lips over hers.

She kissed him back and smiled lazily up at him. “For the moment. Not sure how I’m going to climb that tree to get back into my room though. Too wobbly,” she admitted.  
A proud grin stretched across Gendry’s features. Arya poked him in the side. "You’d best get yourself back to the taproom before they think you fell into the privy.”  
His grin dissolved and he cupped her face between his large, strong hands, divulging, “That wasn’t nearly enough, Arya.”

She kissed him, “I know.”

“What are we going to do?” he asked morosely.

“Talk to Bran. Talk to Hart and Rena. Talk to each other. And keep loving,” she answered, punctuating each statement with a fierce kiss. 

Gendry’s shoulders drooped, “Even when we’re not physically able.”

“Especially then,” she countered, “We’re incredible at this. But we’ve years of practice at that.”

“Had enough practice at that, Arya. Want more of this. So much more of this. As many years and more than there were the other,” his expression was grave as he held her face between his palms.

She looked up at him, her eyes catching beams of light shimmering through the leaves above. One of them drifted downwards and settled on his shoulder. She reached up and plucked it. Twirling the stem of the leaf in her fingers she traced it along his jawline before bringing it to her lips. She slid it into the collar of his shirt, tucking it in over his heart. “There,” she smiled, her hand patting it gently, savoring the thump of his heart under her hand, “You’re an oak tree. A nice oak tree. Strong, enduring. Somewhere I want to call home. And I will,” she promised, “Soon as I can.”

~

#### Storm’s End

It was good that Da was due to return soon, Hart thought, exiting the small council chamber. His transition back to the Stormlands had been as smooth as it could be over the past six weeks—getting caught up on progress, changes, and initiatives—he had suggestions and ideas and the council seemed receptive…but he was not their Lord yet. Council was over, however, and he could go in search of his bride. She wasn’t in her usual haunts—neither the herb gardeners nor the kitchen staff had seen her. She’d been spending much of her days in both—winning over and getting to know those who worked there and going over accounts with the steward, Ser Elwyn Meadows. Her role had long lain unassumed. The last true Lady of Storm’s End had been Cassana Estermont: Stannis, Robert and Renly’s mother. Margaery Tyrell had barely resided there; Lady Selyse, never. Rena was making great headway though. From the instant she’d clapped the sealed letter of introduction from Lord Baratheon into Ser Elwyn’s open palm, she’d worn the mantle of the Lady of the House ably. 

Encountering Sella in the yard, he was at once admonished, “You’d best go look-in on that pretty bride of yours, my boy! She was looking peaky. Said she wanted to retire and dismissed all her ladies for the afternoon. It’s unlike her.” 

Hart nodded, thankful for his old nurse’s direction, and turned back to the Keep. It wasn’t something Rena usually did, even though she’d mentioned how sleepy each afternoon found her now. The secret they held between them was so new and uncertain that they weren’t really speaking about it yet—even between each other. Climbing the steps to their rooms, Hart fretted. The sickness that struck her each morning had mostly subsided and _that_ was a relief, but he wanted to check on her. Their private solar was deserted. Opening the door to their bedchamber, his eyes widened and he felt all his blood rush suddenly downwards. His wife was on their bed in nothing but her shift, legs apart, two fingers deep inside her, hips writhing. Her determined, focused gaze, pierced him. 

“Don’t just stand there gaping,” she admonished, slowing her movements slightly, her chest heaving, “Get over here and _help_ me!” It was as much a plea as it was a demand. 

He didn’t waste his time about it; he was already unbuckling his belt and casting off his jerkin as he crossed the room in two strides. Nabbing her ankles, he pulled her to the edge of the bed. She was still working herself, fingers twisting and rubbing, “Please, love, hurry. I need…”

Hart’s voice was deep and rough with arousal, “Fingers, tongue, or cock?” he queried, one eyebrow raised.

“Cock. Quick and hard, love. I need it quick and hard,” Rena’s voice was hitched and breathy.

Hart yanked his shirt off, then hastily unlaced his breeches. Taking only a moment to prime himself—two quick pumps and he was more than ready—he took her wrist and brought the fingers she’d been using on herself into his mouth, tonguing them clean as he plunged inside her. Her back arched off the bed and she moaned. He didn’t stall, the way he usually did, savoring the feel of her around him, but pumped his hips into her, furiously. 

“More…please…harder,” she begged. He was happy enough to comply. He wasn’t exactly counting, but thought there were fewer than a dozen thrusts before he felt her pulsing around him, pulling at him like a tidal current, her hands clutching at her breasts, neck arched, calling his name. Usually, he’d slow himself, but he kept up his relentless pace asking, “Enough?” 

“No!” she gasped, “Keep going! Hard as you can, love. I’m almost…” she stopped speaking, her hands fisting into the bedclothes, her whole-body shuddering and she cried out his name again. Her spasms around him were tighter this time and he could feel the slickness between them becoming a flood. That hadn’t happened before. His hips stuttered and he pulled back, suddenly wary. Had he hurt her? Or… _them_? He looked down worriedly, but it was clear liquid arousal that drenched them both. 

His wife had her arm thrown over her eyes but was demanding plaintively, “Why’d you _stop_?” 

Hart took a breath, stepped out from between her legs, folded her knees together and seated himself on the edge of the bed saying, “Things got…wetter…than usual. Thought maybe I’d hurt you, or….” his tone was gently leading—concerned. 

Rena took her arm away from her face, her annoyance instantly dissipating. She peered down at herself cursorily, before meeting his eyes and shaking her head, “Gods no! You always make it good, but what just happened…,” she shivered. She’d heard other ladies whispering about things like that during her midwifery training, so she wasn’t as shocked as she might have been when her body responded to his with that sudden gush. “Just shows you were doing good work, love,” she smiled up at him, coquettishly. 

“You’re sure?” His mind wasn’t settled yet. She could see it in the way he caught his lower lip between his teeth. Rena reached out and captured his hand, threading their fingers together. “I’m sure.” Her eyes fell on his lap. He was still hard. She felt less desperate now—they could go slower. She could see he’d need to be coddled a little, back into it. It was sweet how, even in these earliest days, he wanted to protect…whoever might be in there. She cast her eyes from his face to his lap and back again, until he caught the way she was examining him. 

“Still? More?” he asked disbelievingly hopeful, his voice rising in pitch. Rena nodded at him, rolling onto her side and taking him in hand, nibbling the tip of his cock lightly, tracing the length of him with her tongue. He leaned back, sighing, one hand propping himself up as the other came to rest on the back of her head. She brought him back to full attention, sucking him so deep Hart couldn’t help the groan that escaped him or the tightening of his fist in her hair. Understanding the signal, she came up for air.

Kneeling on the bed, she pressed one hand into his chest, urging him backwards so that he was semi-reclined against the pillows. Straddling his hips, she kissed him thoroughly before pressing herself downwards, taking him into her inch by inch until she was seated with him deep inside her. She twined her legs around him, heels digging into his backside, urging him even closer. As she began to rock herself against him, she murmured, “My wanting…it’s another symptom, love. Like the sickness and the sleepiness. Doesn’t happen to everyone—I thought the midwives were joking when I first heard of it—but I guess it’s true. It was agony earlier. Couldn’t bear my own skin—was ready to claw my way out of it—I wanted you so much. But I knew you were busy. Came up to take care of it myself. But it wasn’t working…,” she’d wrapped her arms around his neck and her words were punctuated by his lips, their tongues, the catch and hiss of their breaths as they moved together. “I think I’ve gotten too used to having _you_.”

Hart stilled, looking deep into her luminous amber eyes, “Come get me next time. Doesn’t matter how busy I am. My wife wants me, I’m hers.” 

“I’m sure that would put you in good stead with the bannermen and smallfolk—putting matters on hold—running off to service your wife every time she lusts!” she tittered. “I’d make us a laughingstock. The way I felt earlier, you’d never get _anything_ done!” she cautioned.

“What matters could possibly be greater than _this_?” Hart answered, hands gripping her arse tightly and helping her move against him. 

Rena bit back a whimper as his cock touched something inside her that made her begin to quiver again. 

“You’re right,” she breathed, “Nothing’s greater than this.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANK YOU FOR CONTINUING TO READ THIS INSANELY LONG STORY!
> 
> There are only a couple more chapters to come. I'm posting this one with the apologetic advisory that my real-life circumstances are getting weirder and busier and may affect my ability to wrap up edits in as regular a fashion as I've been able to do so far. I was hoping to have everything completely in-hand and I may yet manage it, but in case I can't...I'm sorry in advance and I will post the next installments as soon as I possibly can. Your feedback and enthusiasm continues to sustain me. Love to you all!


	12. At the Behest of the Three-Eyed Raven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arya visits Bran in King's Landing.  
> Gendry returns to Storm's End.  
> Hart takes up some new responsibilities.

#### King’s Landing

Arya’s arrival in King’s Landing was heralded by all. She hated it. Hated leaving Gendry at the gates of the city so he could continue south to Storm’s End. Hated the necessity of being on display and the general upheaval her arrival caused. But that was what it meant to be the King’s sister and the Queen of the North’s heir. She was to be feasted and coddled, condescended to and arse-kissed until she left. And she had no idea how long Bran expected her to stay. How soon before Sansa might insist that she return North. All of it in the hands of people other than herself. If she were truly honest with herself that’s what she’d meant all those years each time she’d declaimed, _‘that’s not me’_ —being obligated to abide by other people’s expectations of and for her. It was one of the things that had become clear as a cloudless day to her as they’d ridden south. Each night she’d lain with Gendry in Winterfell she’d wanted to—desperately. That desperation hadn’t disappeared on the road, and it wasn’t just about the fucking either. It was having his warm, strong body beside her each night. His presence made her feel safe and complete; as it had when they were children. That _was_ her. It was _them_. And she wanted _that_. 

The smallfolk who’d stopped in the streets to observe and cheer her arrival muttered that the king’s sister was as stone-faced as they’d expect any Northerner to be. It had been years since they’d had an princess or queen. Those old enough to remember spoke fondly of Princess Myrcella’s prettiness—of Queen Margaery’s kindness. No one spoke of Cersei or the Dragon Queen: between them they’d obliterated the city with fire. No one yearned for _that type_ of queen. But there was little glamour or elegance in the court of their bachelor king. Oh, their lives were much better—the rebuilt city cleaner and safer—you couldn’t even count on finding a flea or a bowl of brown in Flea Bottom anymore. The Grand Maester had insisted upon purpose-built community housing and healing houses while the new High Septon ensured that the Faith provided soup-kitchens and orphanages. Somehow, King Bran seemed to see all—the network of spies that had so long been a staple of King’s Landing political intrigues was no longer in use by the Crown and it was shocking how much money could be diverted into programs that would actually help the smallfolk when you weren’t constantly paying bribes or waging war. The Master of Coin was known to have observed that although he’d been a sell-sword himself in days gone by, there was more and better profit to be had by their builder-king than any he’d earned fighting for this lord or that. 

It was Ser Davos who’d tottered out to hail Arya at the gates to the Red Keep. He used a stick, and was stooped and elderly now, but his eyes were still bright and keen. As she alighted from her horse, he bowed, “Good day t’you, Lady Stark. Your brother wished for me to escort you to your rooms. Gave me a message to pass along.”

Arya nodded her greetings before taking his arm—as if she were a real lady, she thought wryly—when in fact, she was helping to steady his steps far more than he could steady hers. She had always judged him kindly—as she thought he had her. He’d abetted and championed Gendry; she’d a soft place in her heart for him because of that. 

“He wanted me to make sure you knew as soon as possible that my position here is coming to an end. I’ll be retiring to the Stormlands before your visit concludes. He’s in the market for a new Master of Ships.”

“And that’s something to do with me?” Arya asked dubiously. “I’m Sansa’s heir. I can’t stay here and serve the Six Kingdoms for Bran.”

“Maybe not,” the old man acknowledged, “But maybe so. He’ll have a plan, your brother. Sure’s the sun rises and sets and the winds eventually blow. Never known him not to.”

Arya chewed her lip. She agreed with that assessment of her brother, but it left her uneasy. “Will you return to Cape Wrath?”

Ser Davos shook his head, “I think not, my lady. Nothing’s there for me now. Marya passed some years ago and we’ve no sons left, nor had any daughters to speak of. House Seaworth begins and ends with me.”

“Where will you go?”

“I’ve no answer for that at present, my lady. It not being quite settled just yet, you understand.” There was a glimmer in his eye and a barely repressed excitement that couldn’t help itself showing beneath his matter-of-fact delivery that led Arya to believe he did have some idea, but knew it wasn’t his place to impart the information. She quirked her skeptical brow at him and the glimmer in his eyes grew. Arriving at the foot of a spiraling stairwell, Ser Davos beckoned to a young page. “Show Lady Stark up to her rooms,” he directed. Turning back to Arya he explained, “You’ll forgive an old man not escorting you up all those blasted stairs, my lady? Have to start off for the Chamber of the Hand more than an hour before any given meeting to be there on time. Once I get up, I usually don’t come down until the day’s over. Don’t know how your brother’s managed it in that chair of his all these years. Or why he didn’t think to rebuild the place with fewer stairs. You’d think he’d be all over the maesters to invent some sort of crane—or winch and pulley system like they’re said to have at The Eyrie—to hoist him around the Keep.”

“Perhaps that should be one of your parting suggestions to him then, my lord,” Arya replied, her eyes twinkling “I know those cranes come in quite handy loading and off-loading ships—they’d likely make it easier for the servants here too. It doesn’t look like my brother’s set against progress,” she noted. 

“Aye. He’s certainly one to push forward on that. Likely he’d have to create a new title for someone though—Master of Lifts and Winches or some rot.”

Arya couldn’t help grinning at him. She _liked_ him. Could see clearly why Gendry valued his insight. They were kin, of a sort: lords who shouldn’t be lords but were, and were because they’d _earned_ it. Most of Bran’s small council was that, now, she realized. Either they were noblemen humbled in some way who’d worked themselves into new roles or they were smallfolk raised above the circumstances of their birth. Or they were Tyrion Lannister.

Well before it was time to visit the main hall for dinner, a messenger appeared with a summons to the godswood. 

Ser Podrick was standing beside Bran when she arrived. He smiled at her and bowed deeply before quietly disappearing himself. 

“You’ve got him trained well,” Arya observed wryly. 

“He was already trained well,” Bran stated, “Sometimes the gods give us what we most need.”

“If you’re going to be vague and mysterious this is going to be a very tedious visit,” Arya retorted, bending to embrace him. She thought she felt him pat her gently on the back. Sometimes it was hard to tell with Bran how much of her little brother was still there. “How many of them are listening to us right now?” she whispered into his ear. She meant the King’s Guard. 

“None. That’s why we’ve come to the godswood. Only the gods—and I—listen here.”

So, he was lumping himself in with the gods now was he? With a shock she realized she’d done the same in explaining herself to herself—in trying to explain how it felt reconstructing herself to Hart and Gendry. She’d found a narrative that worked, why shouldn’t Bran? 

“What have you been listening to, then?” she asked curiously.

“The waves. The gulls. The whispers on the wind. The crunch in the frost, the singing of the sparrows and the thoughts of the moon. Everything, Arya. I listen to everything. I remember everything. I find the patterns in the weft and warp of the world.”

“Am I allowed to ask what you’re weaving?” her tone was dry. He sounded like one of the songs Sansa used to like listening to; she’d always preferred plain-speaking herself. 

“I’m not the weaver. Others weave their own threads. I merely pick out the pattern.”

This was becoming ridiculous. “Why’ve you sent for me, Bran? I mean, I’m glad to come—I did want to see you. But…”

“You’ve other places you’d rather be. I’m well aware, Arya.” He was staring at her with that disconcerting immovability that made it feel as if he were searching under your skin for all your hidden truths. 

“It’s not…!” she began to protest, but Bran’s impassivity somehow became pointedly more impassive. She subsided. 

“I’ve not brought you here to prevent you being exactly where you’d like to be. I’ve brought you here to enable it.”

“Is this you scheming now too? You and Sansa both?” she sounded tired and a little bitter.

“Sansa wants what she has always wanted. To be admired. To be powerful enough to feel free—powerful enough to be safe.”

“But…”

“…that’s an illusion,” Bran finished for her. “And yet it’s one she needs to hold on to. To be powerful enough to be admired is also to be envied; to be powerful enough to be made safe is to put others in harm’s way; to be powerful—to any degree—is to instill fear in others. Sometimes that fear comes because what the present holds feels stable and change feels dangerous. Other times it comes because the present is unstable and the fear of loss is too great to be borne. My rule is stable and I have never inflicted violence or waged war and yet I am also feared—even by you—because you are wondering how much I know and how much of what I know I might manipulate or betray. You learned early that we are only ever as safe as the moment we’re in. Yet, I have a view of all moments.”

That didn’t make any sense at all. And yet, in some arcane, intuitive way Arya understood that what Bran was telling her was that he didn’t intend to manipulate as Sansa tried to do. Instead, he was reading and interpreting from something that had already been written—like a map on which there were many routes and he was charting the best of many possible courses. 

“Why am I here, then?” Arya asked, “I can’t see as far as you seem to. Your summons made sense. I’m your sister. I’ve returned to Westeros and as the King-of-Most-Of-It you’ve an interest in what I’ve seen and where I’ve been. Well and good. I’m here and I share that with you and your council. Then what? Sansa thinks I should start breeding heirs for Winterfell. That’s not me.”

“Is it not?” Bran enquired, his eyes fixing on hers, “Sometimes the gods pull the strings in ways we do not understand until much later.” 

Arya held his eyes, silently. After several moments Bran gave in, “Perhaps not heirs--plural. But I’ve seen him—properly—you know. The same day Sansa first did. His existence didn’t come as a surprise to me as it did to her.”

Arya eyed him, unwavering and mute. 

Bran cocked his head and the muscles at the corner of his lips contracted slightly, “Ask Gendry about the decree of legitimacy. There was a post-script. He’d remember it.” 

“And how am I meant to ask anyone anything? There’s no reason for me to traipse off to the Stormlands at the conclusion of my visit with you. And if I return to Winterfell it solves nothing. She’ll resent it and I’ll resent it and the lords will moan about the Stark line dying out and it will all be politics and suspicion and factions!”

“Which is why you’re here. My Master of Ships is retiring. You’ve sailed farther and seen more than anyone in Westeros.” 

Consternation creased Arya’s brow, “Ser Davos said as much. But won’t that be a problem? Me trying to serve two kingdoms?”

Bran shook his head, “You won’t hold that position. But I’d like you to share all you’ve learned about the lands and seas beyond Westeros with the one who will.” His expression was bland but his eyes were lively.

Arya felt herself go suddenly still. She hadn’t considered King’s Landing as any kind of a base at all. But its proximity to the Stormlands meant that she could use her various talents and continue to build whatever this relationship might turn out to be with her son. It was worth thinking about, certainly. It would even allow her and Gendry to meet up occasionally and continue feeding the narrative they’d begun on the journey south. Guardedly, she asked, “Does Sansa know you’re asking me this?”

Bran shook his head, “She’ll embrace it once offered, no doubt. She’s her own hopes where you’re concerned. And you’re right: she’s never liked you…lurking.” The glimmer in his eye as he pronounced the last word made Arya start. It was as if he _knew_ how she’d reintroduced herself to their sister and the pirate queen and, even more astonishingly, _was amused_ by it. 

“Who do you intend to appoint?” she asked. 

“Ser Davos has agreed to mentor my appointee. He has invaluable experience to share. I’ll send him immediately with a letter offering the appointment if you agree.”

That wasn’t an answer. Arya’s eyebrow lifted and her lips pressed together as she studied her brother. “I’m not sure how I’m meant to agree when I’ve no idea what I’m agreeing to.”

Bran smiled, “I thought that would be obvious, Arya. Ser Davos will retire to the Stormlands to mentor the next Master of Ships. There’s no real reason for him to be in King’s Landing more than a few times a year. Once your visit here is concluded you can join him to impart your own knowledge at my behest. For however long that takes.”

Arya’s eyes had widened with his words. “Which?” she asked, her heart in her throat.

Bran gestured, broad and guileless, “Whichever makes sense. Whichever might choose to take it on. I offer an option, Arya, not a decree.”

She was flabbergasted. The solution was…elegant. It would give her a reason and excuse to be in the Stormlands for as long as it made sense—for as long as Hart and Gendry wished for her to be there. It would give them needed time for…everything. To make their own plans. To develop their own relationships. She leaned down and kissed her brother’s cheek. 

He smiled at her, “I know I wasn’t ever your favourite—like Jon was—and you resented all I was permitted because I was a boy. But you being you gave Westeros a future. Embrace it.” As he finished speaking, Bran’s expression grew distant in his usual manner. 

Arya wasn’t sure whether he was referring to her actions in the past, the present, or the future, but she was grateful for his words. “You’re a good king,” she said, encouragingly, “However resentful I was then, I can see that well enough now.”

Bran came back to the present and shrugged, “I hold space. I set the realm up for greater success under its’ next ruler. I am the king of broken things, but my efforts should ensure that my successor will spend less time on reconstruction and can…perhaps…focus on unification.”

By the time ravens had flown from King’s Landing to Winterfell and back again with Sansa’s assent and an addendum—Arya’s own ship and crew should remain ready in whichever port was closest to where she needed to be so that she could return North independently at any time and she was to function in the role of Ambassador Liaison for the North in the Six Kingdoms—Ser Davos had sent a raven from Storm’s End.

> _My King,_
> 
> _Hart Baratheon has expressed an interest in accepting the king’s proposal and appointment. He remembered me fondly from a day spent with him as a guide touring the shipyards during his first visit to King’s Landing some years ago. Seems he furthered that interest during his years in the North learning from Yara Greyjoy. He thanks the king for his confidence and the opportunity to learn from the newly returned Lady Stark. His father has made it known that he is content to host us both at Storm’s End for as long as the king and his new Master of Ships feel necessary. I have, myself, already been made very welcome._
> 
> _Your loyal servant,_
> 
> _\- Lord Davos Seaworth_

It was only a matter of days before Arya left King’s Landing.

~

#### Storm’s End

When Davos arrived with Bran’s letter, Gendry and Hart had eyed one another across it. They both understood—without speaking—what this proposal truly offered. Gendry finished reading it and looked up at Davos, demanding, “Why’s it _boats_ every bloody time you come find me?” an expression of exasperated distaste creasing his brow.

Ser Davos’s eyes twinkled at him, “At least you’ve a choice about it this time, lad. And maybe this _is_ why.” 

A significant look passed between them. Hart caught the exchange and asked incredulously, “You know?”

Gendry nodded at him. “He guessed when we went to King’s Landing that first time. There are more people there who likely would or _could_ guess. You should know that before you agree to anything, mate.” 

Davos smiled, “You’re only like her in spirit, lad, not in looks. Not many are left that would be that familiar with her in either capacity. But most of those who might hold position and influence in King’s Landing.”

“It’s not…” Hart began, then paused, “It’s not that I’ve any wish to deny her. Or that I dislike her, you understand? It’s just…”

Ser Davos nodded, “You’d like to chart your own course. All men do, lad. I’m here to help you learn to do it well if you choose—as best an old sailor can, anyroad.” He shrugged, genially. 

Hart summoned Rena and Gendry re-read the king’s letter to her. Her eyes narrowed as she listened. She studied both Baratheons in silence for a moment before inquiring, “I expect the reason you’ve included me in this conversation, my lord, is that you’ve no interest in the role yourself and my husband is contemplating the challenge?”

Gendry smiled at her. He always appreciated how quick she was and how no-nonsense she was about it. Hart grinned and reached out for her hand, kissing the top of it, “What do you say, my lady? Could you stomach being the Mistress of Ships as well as the Lady of Storm’s End?”

“There’s no such title and you know it!” she scoffed, a sparkle dancing in her eyes. Ser Davos immediately thought her charming. She turned to him, “And you’d guide him, Lord Seaworth? Make certain he wasn’t left…floundering.” She arched an eyebrow at him and all three men dissolved into laughter at the terrible pun. 

Before Davos could answer, Gendry interjected, “So long as you don’t push him out to sea with as little direction as you did me. A little more guidance would be welcome this time.” 

“Got you out alive, Gendry, that’s what mattered,” Davos remarked and then bowed slightly to Rena, “But aye, my lady: the king has sent me to share what little I know. I’ve served and survived several kings myself. I’d be only too pleased to share what I can in exchange for ground-floor rooms, a warm fire, and company.”

Rena smiled at the old man amiably, “I’m confident that can be arranged, my lord.” She kissed her husband’s cheek and curtsied to Ser Davos and her father-in-law before excusing herself from the room. There’d been no choice to make. Rena could see Hart was excited about the opportunity. He had a mind for logistics and design—the bridal gift he’d made her was evidence of that—and both would come in handy in this role. He’d like liaising with more people both within and beyond Storm’s End. He would gain a voice at table in the king’s small council. And, furthermore, it made space for Arya to be accounted for in their lives. She wanted that for him as much as he clearly wanted all of it for himself. 

~

Privately, in Gendry’s solar that first night, the three spoke further. 

“It was training with her that made Rawly notice at The Wall. I enjoyed sparring with her—she’s a challenge I’ve not been able to match yet. I’d like to continue to learn from her that way too. Should I not, while she’s here?”

“You should do whatever you wish, love,” Rena advised, curling her feet up beside her on the settle and leaning against his shoulder. His arm came around her and Gendry saw her casually take his hand and place it lightly over her lower belly, twining her fingers with his. Gendry’s mouth dropped open. His eyes flew to his son. Hart was smiling into Rena’s upturned face. 

“Are you…?” he sputtered, “ _Already_?”

Rena’s happy, sparkling eyes met his and she flushed prettily, nodding.

Hart was glowing with pride, “My lady insisted. So, in about…oh…seven moons?” Rena nodded her confirmation. “There should be an heir for Storm’s End, Da.”

Gendry felt a giddy excitement he’d never felt before bubbling in his bloodstream. It wasn’t the prospect of an heir—it was the child itself. He’d been overwhelmed when Arya told him Hart was coming but there’d been so many secrets to manage and deceptions to plan—not to mention the jagged crack in his own heart that throbbed each beat with her rejection of him. _This_ announcement brought him nothing but joy. It shone out of him—a dopey grin stretching his face—speechless with happiness. Hart stood and crossed the room to embrace his father. “It’s still early enough that we’re not ready to tell anyone. Others’ll start noticing soon enough.” Wryly, he added, “Perhaps that’ll keep them from noticing anything else.”

The return to their earlier topic of conversation brought Gendry out of his happy-trance, “Given time everyone notices something. Still doesn’t mean any of us need to confirm anything. Rawly said anything to you about what he witnessed on the King’s Road?”

Hart sat down beside Rena again, grinning, “Only that the Winterfell men began losing wagers they’d made against our Stormlanders somewhere around the God’s Eye. Our men were happy about it—course, they would be with the extra coin. He wondered if I might give him odds on any wagers for the future. Told him that’d be inside dealing and he’d best wait and see.”

Rena was chuckling. If Hart could be teased about the apparent budding romance between his parents it meant he was beginning to internalize it—to cope with it—to incorporate it into his understanding of himself. 

“Do you think…,” Gendry began, “Where’re you at about the knife, mate?”

Hart shook his head, “I think I’m ready _for_ her. I’m just not ready to _be hers_. Would like a chance at being myself, first, in any case. Being Master of Ships will be something neither of you’ve given me. I can prove myself to myself and have the chance to prove myself within the small council. My voice might have more weight, later, if I’ve served ably. And,” he added, casting his eyes over Gendry, “I know we have a seat amongst the Lords Paramount regardless, but I’d rather you not pass that seat along too soon, Da. I know you’re not inclined to play the game, but as long as you’re living, you’re the voice there. I can—and will—take on whatever you want me to here, but in King’s Landing I need my own position to have a voice and walk my own path.”

Gendry took a sip from his cup and nodded his understanding. It was a simple, silly thing, and he would gladly hand everything over to Hart immediately if he could. But the rules of court were deeply entrenched and, to date, his obligations on the Council of Lords Paramount hadn’t been terribly onerous—and wouldn’t be unless the King died or all-out war came once again to Westeros. It pleased him enough to know that his son was open to making his own opportunities and wasn’t itching for him hurry up and die so he could run things. He could think of at least one high lord whose son was: Lord Edmure Tully’s eldest, Edmyn, who was about five years older than Hart. With a start he realized that boy was Arya’s cousin. And half-Frey. A by-product of that cursed Red Wedding. 

“How many of the small council are you familiar with, Da?” Hart asked. 

“None of them very well—apart from Ser Davos,” Gendry admitted. “If it comes to allegiances—the Grand Maester remains a friend of Jon’s. The Hand and the Master of Coin are in each other’s pockets—always have been. As for the Council of Lords Paramount: we’re on good enough terms with Dorne now—ever since we put down the Dothraki raids.” 

Hart’s chin bobbed thoughtfully, “So I’d do best to seek out my own friends.”

“Unlike me, you’ve always enjoyed that,” Gendry observed. Hart smiled at him fondly.

Rena’s mouth stretched into a wide grin at his candor. “I don’t know about that, my lord,” she mused, “You’ve always made me feel welcome. Even though I was stealing your son away from you.”

Gendry shook his head at her, amused, “If anything we stole you. Saw your worth—like the Free Folk do—and ran off with it. You’re doing good work here—work I didn’t understand and couldn’t see needed doing. Tried my best, but you’ve different skills and perspective than I have. It’s valued, my lady,” he concluded with a tilt of his cup—and chin—in her direction.

Rena smiled back. She liked hearing that. Storm’s End had been without a woman’s influence for too long. In as many ways as it flourished, there were areas where it languished. Hart could see that too, once they’d returned. Women’s needs and concerns and justice were considered and given priority in the Queen of the North’s court in a way they hadn’t been here. Perspective mattered. Hart came home with a more enlightened one and a partner who wanted to help him tackle it.

For all Gendry resented Sansa’s ideas and schemes in various areas of his life, her determination to foster Hart had proved sound—for all parties concerned. He’d grant that much to her. Gazing at his son and daughter-in-law’s happy, excited faces across the solar he owned himself a truly lucky man.

~

Arya rode into Storm’s End escorted by the men who’d brought her south from Winterfell. She wasn’t able to sneak in here either, though a formal procession was not warranted. The holdfast reminded her of the old King’s Landing. Narrow cobbled streets and high walls. The guards at the gate were expecting her. She was brought immediately to the Round Hall where Hart and Gendry sat together hearing petitions. She strode into the hall as the guard proclaimed, “Lady Arya Stark: the Hero of Winterfell, Bringer of the Dawn, Circumnavigator of the World, Ambassador Liaison for the North in the Six Kingdoms!”

Both Gendry and Hart stood from their seats as she approached. She bowed her head to them with respect and they inclined their heads to her. Gendry bounded down the stairs and kissed her hand, his face alight. Several serving women gasped and a rumble of low voices ran around the room. Rumours had returned alongside the men who’d gone North: rumours that their Lord might also have found love in the North. For a household who had only seen him direct such open warmth towards his son—and of late—his new daughter-in-law, his conduct was startling.

“I’ve come at the behest of my brother, King Bran, and with permission of my sister, the Queen of the North, to share what I can of the world with the new Master of Ships. With your permission, my lord?” Arya glimmered formally at him, chin tilted and eyebrow quirked. 

“You have it,” he decreed, his eyes dancing. “Find rooms for Lady Stark in the main keep,” he commanded of the room at large, adding, “Ask Lady Rena to see to it. She’ll know which are best.” His blue eyes locked with Arya’s growing unabashedly darker as he took in the sight of her. 

Arya’s eyebrow rose somewhat higher and she felt her banked desire for him kindle again readily. They were all pack now. And pack worked together, aiding and abetting one another for the good of all. Rena might give her rooms, but she would only use them by day, because she didn’t intend to spend another night apart from Gendry if she could help it. 

~  
He’d stolen into her rooms that first night. She’d known he was coming—had been pacing the room impatiently waiting for him. The moment he pushed the door to her solar shut behind him, she pounced: pressing him up against the wooden planks, kissing him thoroughly. He’d laughed against her mouth in approbation, his large hands grasping her backside and lifting her easily. 

“Missed me, milady?” he muttered against her searching lips as he turned and pressed her back against the door. 

She stopped kissing him long enough to meet his eyes, asking scornfully, “Afraid I wouldn’t?”

Thrusting one hand down the front of her breeches, his fingers found her soaking and she gasped. “Evidence to hand says you missed my cock at the very least, milady.” A self-satisfied smile spread across his face as he watched her involuntarily grinding herself against his hand, her teeth catching at her bottom lip. A lengthy, grudging moan was her only answer as her fingers dug into his biceps and his grin widened even more. He leaned close to her ear and whispered, “I’ll have you on every surface here. When we’ve made memories of them all you’ll come to my rooms and we’ll do the same.”

Arya’s breath caught and she shivered. “I’m not sleeping here again once I’ve come to you,” she vowed, “Not ever. Is everyone…ready…for that?” her voice was tentative.

Gendry looked deeply into her eyes, “I’ll not sleep alone now that you’re here. Everyone will have to get used to it. Either I’m in here with you, or you’re with me, Arya. I’ve not made any real demands before; Winterfell was your home and it wasn’t my place. But _I’m_ the Lord _here_ and I will now. I’m in your bed or you’re in mine. From this day until the end of my days.” He swore the last with an air of determined whimsy.

Arya’s hips stilled, her eyebrow arching with humour, but her grey eyes registering the momentousness of his declaration. “So, I’m to be your paramour, then?” she asked, her legs wrapping tighter around his waist and drawing him even closer. 

“Do you object?” he asked, one thumb tracing her chin while his other hand probed deeper between her thighs. 

Her neck arched back against the door and she sighed. The next moment she was gripping the back of his head and pressing kisses along the line of his jaw, “I like it better than wife. There’s more…autonomy in it.” _Be what you are and be whole_. She could claim his love, his time, and his bed using that term. Possessing her own titles made doing so practically reputable. Besides, Sansa would hate that it was a declaration without binding—a promise without permanence—a commitment without formal obligations. Even if, for her, this agreement held all of those things: bonds, permanence, and obligations, the fact that they remained hers to choose every day made it all seem better somehow. Less constricting. Her sister sought clarity and found comfort in forms and rigidity but only as those strictures applied to other people than herself. Well, Arya wasn’t going to buy-in to such hypocrisy. She never had. If Sansa and Yara could make their own terms, she could have Gendry on hers. The fact that doing so would irk her sister, was, Arya acknowledged, part of the appeal. 

Gendry’s fingers had stilled inside her with her words. He pulled back slightly, “You’re worried about autonomy? You? The only person in the entire world I’ve served—and will always serve—willingly?”

“Not worried,” she shook her head at him and then kissed him gently, her eyes aglow, “Grateful.”  
They gazed at each other for several heartbeats before she cocked her eyebrow at him again, “If you’re intending to serve me…,” she rocked her hips into him and his mind registered the hot wetness of her once again. His eyes darkened and a rumble issued from deep in his chest. 

When the maids came to light the fires the next morning, the low table before the hearth was a collapsed pile fit for nothing but kindling. Lady Stark strode from her bedchamber shrugging into her jacket. The two maids stared at her, mouths hanging open. Arya fixed them with a look. “Practicing my waterdancing,” she explained cursorily, with a twinkle of amusement before striding purposefully out of the room. The suite would likely have an entirely new set of furniture by the time she relocated permanently to Gendry’s rooms, she reflected. And if, in the meantime, she could blame it on her waterdancing, that would give her and Hart a little leeway. 

~

Arya was seated on a table regaling Hart with a tale of a sea battle when Gendry opened the door to the study off the Round Hall. Nothing had felt wrong about ceding the space to his son. The lad had occupied it for him in the weeks he’d been travelling south and his new role meant that he needed the space far more than Gendry ever had. Besides, it was on the ground level which meant that Ser Davos could access it with ease. Any way that he could make things easier for Ser Davos, he would. He was more than grateful for the old man’s wisdom and guidance; Hart could learn from no one better. He’d survived five Baratheon kings (if you counted the Lannister imposters), the Battle of the Blackwater and the Long Night and the politics of both the North and the South. He was not just a resource about vessels. His contribution was much greater than that. He’d served as Hand of the King to Stannis and witnessed firsthand much of the recent history of all Seven Kingdoms. And Hart was eager to learn. Gendry watched Hart chortle heartily over whatever Arya was relaying as he watched her with rapt attention. Pausing in the doorway, Gendry soaked in the sight of them. His love. Their son. Happy and obviously enjoying each other’s company. It made his heart jolt and swell in his chest. As both pairs of grey eyes settled upon him, lighting with welcome, he grinned and stepped into the room. 

“Didn’t mean to interrupt,” he said. “I won’t be long. Just needed a couple of maps. Need to clarify some borders for some smallfolk in the Hall and to give them a moment to cool their heads.”

Hart’s grin echoed his own, “It’s your study as much as it is mine, Da. Don’t apologize. Borys and Steffen at it again, are they?”

Gendry scowled, nodding. “Thumping him with a hammer’s not likely to press upon Borys that just because his son wed Steffen’s daughter it doesn’t mean he’s rights to graze Steffen’s land.”

Arya’s face lit up as she asked, “How many children do they both have?”

Hart frowned for a moment, considering, “Steffen’s only got the two girls. Borys has five altogether.” Gendry paused from gathering the maps intrigued by wherever Arya’s mind might be headed. 

Arya smirked, “Carve off a sixth of Borys’s portion then—the part that borders Steffen’s—and divide Steffen’s in thirds. Let him keep two thirds for himself and the unwed daughter and parcel out the other third and Borys’s sixth to the happy couple. Let them manage their own fathers on their land.”

Gendry gaped at her. He exchanged a glance with Hart. “Would that work, do you think?”

Hart shrugged, “It might. Would certainly be entertaining watching Melda and Boryn try to manage their elders. Would likely keep the dispute out of our hall for the foreseeable future.”

Gendry bent his head and kissed Arya heartily. She kissed him back without any impulse towards bashful timidity. Their son knew they loved. And this kiss, though it certainly wasn’t lacking feeling, was comparatively chaste. 

As they pulled apart Hart cleared his throat and said, “Da? If you don’t mind, Arya was just telling me about a leviathan pulling her out of a becalmed scrape. Don’t distract her please. I’d like to hear the end of it.”

Gendry left the room laughing and Arya’s eyes danced as she returned to her tale eagerly.

~

“My Lord?”

Gendry paused, hammer in the air, and turned his head at the sound of Rena’s voice. 

“My lady,” he inclined his head to his daughter-in-law. She’d not sought him out in the forge before. He put the hammer down. “Are you well? Can I help with something?” 

She smiled at him, “Can you walk with me? I’d like to discuss some matters with you.”

Gendry nodded and reached for his shirt, pulling it on over his head. “Of course.” He wondered what might have made her seek him out. Hart had gone to King’s Landing for his first small council meeting with the king nearly a week past and would return soon. He’d seen ravens flying in on his way to the forge. Perhaps Hart had sent her a message. 

Once he’d shrugged into his jerkin, Rena reached for his arm, an apologetic moue twisting her lips, “The cobbles make my feet uncertain now. I hope you don’t mind?”

Gendry placed a hand over hers where it was resting on his forearm. “Happy to steady you, my lady. Whatever’s needed.” She smiled up at him. The pair greeted and nodded to several passersby as they made their way to the gardens. As they trod the paths slowly together Gendry couldn’t help wondering what was on her mind. She didn’t leave him in the dark for long. One hand absently caressing the babe whose presence was, by now, very evident, she began, “I want to know…have you and Lady Arya ever discussed what happens if Hart claims her outright? I’d like to understand what his doing so might mean for my child.”

Gendry’s steps slowed. “Not exactly,” he replied. Gesturing to her belly he continued, “This is my grandchild and eventual heir. That much is certain by the laws of men no matter what. The same would be true of any other children you both might have. But you aren’t asking about the child’s claim here, are you? You’re asking about…the North.”

Rena nodded, her eyes holding his. “We’re—he’s—not ready to claim her. But I think he wants to try to lay a foundation in King’s Landing—through his new role—that would enable him to do so. It might be years before he feels able to own her the way I very much suspect he’d like to. He’s more ambitious than I knew. But I admire what he wants to achieve. I’d just like…” Rena’s gaze flickered away to rest on some climbing vines that clung to the stone walls. 

Gendry waited, silently, for her to resume her thoughts. 

Rena sighed, “I love him. And I want our family to be safe. Can we be?”

Gendry eyed her solemnly, “Arya and I will do our best to see you so. But we aren’t gods. None of us.”

Rena gazed back at him, open and sincere and stoic as she settled her shoulders and straightened her spine, “I appreciate your honesty, my lord. You’ve always been so. I like knowing where things stand. Don’t leave me out of the conversation just because I’m a girl carrying a babe. That’s all I ask.”

Gendry’s eyes softened as he watched her will—strong as iron—make itself manifest. He squeezed her hand under his own, “Hart made you part of our pack, Rena. You’ve any questions, doubts or ideas: share them. I’ve never been a high lord who can’t take criticism or other people’s input. And you’ve more than earned your voice at our table. We work together. Arya and I have a shorthand—same as you’ve one with my son. That’s natural. But we want you in our confidence as much as you’d like us in yours. That’s not changed and the family you’re growing only makes it more important we stay united in purpose. That purpose—for me—has been Hart since the moment I knew he was coming. His concerns are mine. The same’s true for Arya. I’ll speak that much for her. We own them whether he owns us or no.”

Rena’s eyes locked with his, “I know it, my lord. I can’t help wondering…should I raise them Northern? Southern? A mix of the two? Should I plan for them to be great lords and ladies or honest folk who know themselves?”

Gendry’s brow lowered in concentration, “I raised Hart to be both. Doesn’t seem to have done him any harm. And I was making it all up as I went. Alone. You’ll have all of us as best we can manage. But,” he admitted, his eyes flickering down to the swell of her belly, “The Queen in the North gave me reason to believe—before you were wed—that she’d like Hart or one of his children to take on the North one day. It’s entirely up to you both whether you’d be willing. Arya and I won’t interfere unless you want us to. It’s not our lives in the balance. But we’d always fight for yours.”

A thoughtful look passed over Rena’s face. She nodded and squeezed his hand. “I thank you for telling me, my lord.” Raising herself on tiptoe, she brushed a light kiss across Gendry’s cheek. He blushed slightly.

“Do you think…?” Gendry began, “Is it something you think either of you would consider?”

Rena hummed. “Hart wrote this morning. He feels this first council was successful. His enthusiasm for the work is contagious. I want to support him however I can.”

Gendry watched her face as it firmed, “Doesn’t answer my question, Rena.”

She shook her head at him, “I don’t know. But I know I want whatever he wants. I want to help him achieve whatever he wants. He has a good head on his shoulders and a kind heart. Westeros could do with more lords like him.”

There was more to this young woman than he’d thought. And, clearly, his son wasn’t the only one determined to make a difference in Westeros. 

~

#### A Moon or So Later

Genna was born on a bright, cloudless, windless day. Storm’s End was oddly silent—the waves that usually thrashed against the shoreline lapping gently. When Hart threw open the door, beaming, Gendry felt a flash of recognition—the pure joy radiating from his son was the same he’d felt nearly seventeen years earlier. Hart embraced him with a pounding hug. 

“She’s fine! They’re both fine! I’ve a daughter, Da!”

Gendry stuck his head tentatively into the room. Knowing, intimately, the toll birthing took, he’d not want Rena disturbed by his presence. But she looked up at him brightly, smiling, and beckoned him forward, “Come see her!” He stepped closer and Rena offered the baby up to him immediately. Taking the tiny bundle in his arms he peered down at her. She had very long eyelashes—those were Rena’s—but the down on the top of her head was the same colour as his own. Pressing the tip of his pinkie against the tightly closed fist, he persuaded the baby to unfurl her grip long enough to inveigle his finger into her palm. By reflex, she immediately gripped him tight. Gendry grinned. So they all did that. He’d assumed they must, but the feel of it brought such vivid memories of those first frantic hours of Hart’s infancy when he’d smuggled him across Tarth and slept with him clutched against his chest for those too-few precious hours before he’d had to leave him with Sella and row away. He looked up at his son and daughter-in-law, eyes shining. 

“She’s beautiful!” Peering at her more closely, his brow creased uncertainly, “But why’s the top of her head pointed?”

Rena laughed, “She’s the first to make the trip out. First babies often have heads like that. My lady mother always said mine was. It’ll soften and reshape itself over the next few days. Expect it will be round as her Papa’s then. Was Hart’s not?”

Gendry shook his head, humour lacing his voice, “No. He’s always been as block-headed as he is now.” He couldn’t stop staring at the baby. She was perfect. 

“Hey, now!” Hart exclaimed, mustering a mild protest. 

Rena winced and a moue puckered her lips, “Poor Arya.”

“Poor me what now?” Arya demanded, appearing at the foot of the bed on the heels of their conversation. For the moment it was just them. No maester, no midwives, no servants. 

Hart grinned widely at her, “Apologies for my thick head, my lady. Da said I wasn’t as obliging as my beautiful daughter in reshaping it for delivery.” 

“Your head was trouble but your shoulders were worse,” she ran one hand over Gendry’s, admiringly, squeezing slightly as she stepped up beside him. “Wasn’t your fault—I’ve blamed your father for that all these years,” she added nonchalantly. Gendry held the baby out before him so that she could get a good look. Arya breathed out a sigh of wonder, “She’s exquisite.” She reached out a finger and traced it down the line of the baby’s nose. The baby’s brow quirked up and Arya’s did the same in surprise. Gendry held his breath. She’d never even held Hart at this age—had barely looked at him. “Do you want to hold her?” he asked, his voice low and cautious.

She looked over at Rena and Hart and the apprehensive regret in her expression made his heart sore. Both of them were nodding solemnly at her. He could see her swallow before nodding her agreement. Bending slightly, he handed his granddaughter off to her grandmother. It was a bizarre thing to realize that that’s what they were now: someone’s grandparents. When they’d never even really been parents together. Gendry held his breath watching her watch the baby. After a few moments, she instinctively cuddled her closer and her shoulders settled. He breathed out. 

“Given her a name yet?” he asked the pair who were now snuggled together on the bed, holding hands, Hart’s arm wrapped around Rena’s shoulders. 

“She’s named for you,” Hart answered readily, “…and my clever wife. Lady Genna Baratheon of Storm’s End.”

Gendry’s eyes widened and his mouth gaped open. Arya shifted her gaze to witness his surprise, merriment and satisfaction writ widely across her own features. “Good choice,” she declared, nodding at Rena, their eyes exchanging glimmers over Gendry’s evident pride. Stepping towards the bed, she leaned over to pass the baby back to Rena and as she did, the baby’s eyes opened. They weren’t Baratheon blue, nor were they Stark grey. Little Lady Genna had an eye-colour all her own: a coppery colour that somehow entwined her mother’s amber with her father’s pewter. She was an entirely new person and she was made up of everyone who’d come before. Arya smiled at the thought. 

One of the midwives returned and insisted that they all go—including Hart—so that Rena could rest. He was having none of it. “I’m staying. She sleeps well enough when I’m beside her every night. And while she rests I can get acquainted with my daughter. I intend to count her toes again. Several times. And then each of her fingers. Quite possibly each and every hair on her head.”

“You’re ridiculous,” Arya grinned, “Adorable, but ridiculous.” Gendry’d moved to his son’s side, tousling his hair before bending to brush a kiss over the crown of his head. Hart leaned his head into his father’s stomach as Gendry hugged his head, both of them gazing raptly at the baby in Hart’s arms. Watching them, Arya felt such a tugging on her heart she had to hold her own breath. The midwife broke the tender moment with some decided throat clearing. Both Arya and Rena’s glances should have felled the woman, but she somehow, miraculously remained upright and unperturbed. 

After Gendry and Arya had left, Rena elbowed Hart lightly, “Do you understand better now?” 

“Understand what, my love?” he whispered, shooting apprehensive glances at the back of the militant midwife who was busying herself across the room, but who would—from time to time—squint at him disapprovingly over her shoulder. 

“She’s here and you love her and I love her. _They_ love her. And none of us love the rest any less. That was something you were struggling to understand a year ago.”

Hart regarded her frankly, “I thought I understood everything about how Da must have felt about me. But I think that might really be true, today. I understood better the moment you told me she was coming. Definitely made me understand _her_ ,” he said vaguely—meaning Arya—but keeping things obscure given the presence of the midwife.

It had all made sense to him as the moons passed and he’d watched Rena’s belly swell and felt the baby moving inside her. The wonder of it—the alien-ness of it—everything Arya had said about what it was like carrying him made sense. It had struck him particularly hard—literally—the first time he’d felt Genna kick while he was also inside her mother. It had startled him.

> _“They don’t want me rocking the boat!” he’d exclaimed, leaning away from his wife’s searching lips, automatically recoiling from the sudden thump he’d felt against his stomach and holding her hips—preventing further motion._
> 
> _Rena’d laughed at him, rubbed one hand languidly and provocatively around the mound of her belly, caressing it, as she tossed her hair back over her shoulders. With her other hand she’d tugged his hand from her hip and guided it to her breast, humming with contentment as he complied. Holding his eyes, she rose and sank onto him again. He groaned. The vision of her over him like that never ceased to undo him. “They’ll like the rocking, love, much as I do. It’ll put them to sleep soon enough.” She’d been right. He hadn’t felt the baby again until well after, when he lay with his head between Rena’s breasts and his hand resting on the gentle curve of her stomach._

But the fact of there being someone else—someone who could react with physical opinions about the state of their environment--struck him fully. Arya had once felt all of that while she was alone with him—an opinion and presence making itself known without form or substance. And once he’d been formed—expelled into the world—she hadn’t allowed herself to know him. Tracing gentle fingertips across the cheeks and brow of his sleeping daughter, Hart couldn’t imagine being deadened to the wonder of it. 

But then, rather suddenly, in the pit of his stomach, he truly felt the latent dread of it: what it might be like to know something as wonderous as Genna and Rena and lose them. And not just once. But over and over, again and again. He shuddered involuntarily and he felt Rena shift beside him—her hand cupping itself lightly over his thigh and squeezing in her sleep. That she could somehow sense his fears—feel them, reach out, and instinctively comfort his disquiet from mid-dream—was a marvel. She was full of marvels. One less today, but he knew if she had her way, she’d be carrying another soon enough. Her love was so generous and brought him so much. He was glad he’d had the sense to wed her. 

~ 

Gendry made love to Arya slowly that night. It was as if he were thanking every pore of her skin with every breath of his body and beat of his heart. He murmured ‘thank you’ over and over and over across every inch of her body until, at one point, she’d laughingly rebuked him, “It’s your daughter-in-law did the work today. Why’re you thanking _me_?”

His lips stretching into an answering smile he whispered against her belly, “ _You_ said: _I can be your family_. It was _you_ gave me the son who’s brought me all the rest.” His eyes had met hers and they’d held a long, silent conversation before his lips traveled lower. The parts of her that had brought forth their son were awash with the depth of his gratitude for a very, very long time.

~

#### Some Years Later…

In a glade not far from Storm’s End, on day only beginning to hint that autumn might be stealing across the land, Rena lay reclining against a tree nursing the new baby. Newly-toddling Davy—named for Ser Davos (a fact the old man took great pride in)—used a very patient Hero’s fur to pull himself up into a wobbly-legged stand, crowing triumphantly, while Hart and Gendry and Arya played keep-away with Genna and Brandon.

Genna was a child full of giggles who frowned her displeasure whenever her grandfather dodged her. He could always tell when her impatience with the game peaked and was usually the first to fold her into his strong arms, tickling her cheeks with his beard before tossing her into the air. While her father and ‘Nary’ (as she called Arya) would give chase and tag one another as often as they did her—Gran-Da always knew when she needed to be caught. She liked being caught. Especially by Gran-Da. He always made her feel safe. She lay her head on his shoulder and sighed. He patted her back slowly and it soon became a gentle circle that lulled her eyes shut—a beatific smile plastered across her face.

Admiringly, Arya observed, “You Charmer! She’s fast asleep!” She stood on her tiptoes to kiss him, tenderly. As she fell back onto her heels, eyes opening slowly, Arya caught Genna peeping one eye open at her.

“Am not!” the child stated bluntly, closing both eyes so tightly shut that the endeavor screwed her round face up entirely. 

A delighted laugh bubbled out of Arya. “Just like cuddling with Grand-Da, then?” When there was no answer, she squiggled her fingers down the small girl’s spine causing her to wriggle in Gendry’s arms. Gendry beamed at her. “Can’t say I blame you,” she confided quietly, “He’s very good at it.” 

“She’s Gran-Da’s gem and she knows it,” Hart called, having swooped Brandon up onto his shoulders and was now running about the glade, shifting from prancing deer to raging bull and causing his son to cackle with glee. 

Arya picked up Davy and set him on Hero’s back. Wrapping his arms around the wolf’s neck, he cried, “Go!” and the pair raced off to chase Hart and Brandon. 

Rena smiled up at them all beneficently, shifting Eleni to her other breast as Arya plopped down beside her. “You’ve such patience. I love them--they’re wonderful. But you never show if you’re exhausted by them. Are you?” she inquired, genuinely curious.

Rena nodded slowly, confiding, “This time, I am. Maybe it’s the lot of them being so close together. We’re going to pause on acquiring any more just now. Let them age a little before we have any more. Hart teased me early on that I’d be pregnant my whole life. We’d both thought it a joke. Not everyone makes babes as easily as we seem to. But I so _enjoy_ the making of them,” she lamented, a wry, self-aware smile tugging at the corners of her lips.

Arya snorted, “ _The seed is strong_ ,” that’s what my brother told me was in those ledgers of Jon Arryn’s that revealed Gendry’s parentage to my father. Just as well I hadn’t heard _that_ story before the Long Night. Not that I think it would have made much difference given our circumstances then. Still…” she shrugged, “explains a lot.”

Rena tittered gently as she smoothed one hand lovingly over the baby’s head. “You don’t regret it, though, right?” 

Arya shook her head decisively, “Not the decisions I made then—being with his father and having him—and certainly not now. There were some moments along the way when I just didn’t understand myself well enough to care—and that was oblivion I was feeling, not regret. It wasn’t about them, or even really about me. It was about existing. I didn’t care to exist. I don’t recommend it. If you ever feel that way say so. Don’t do what I did and run.” Arya’s mouth pulled wryly, “Not that you’re likely to: you and I are different. But it was his birth triggered the last of it—made the need for oblivion worse somehow.”

Rena put a hand over Arya’s and divulged, “That happens sometimes. It wasn’t your fault or something you were lacking. And on top of everything you’d been through already. I can’t imagine.” Arya gripped her hand tightly, taking on the sympathy offered. They were very different women, but the way Rena comported herself never set Arya’s teeth on edge the way so many other ladies seemed to. An aura of acceptance surrounded her: Arya admired it. 

A messenger arrived at the border of the glade, eyes searching among the Lord’s family. When they lighted on Arya, he dismounted and made a bee-line for her. She rose to greet him. 

“My lady! Maester Ormund sent me. Said you’d need to read this immediately. It just arrived from King’s Landing.”

Arya took the scroll he held out and unraveled it.

> _Arya,_
> 
> _I’ve advised Sansa that you’ll be needed in King’s Landing. My small council and the Lords Paramount are being summoned as well. Know, when it happens, that fault is to be ascribed nowhere but with me. Vengeance is neither looked for, nor required. That is not your role, and it is not why I summon you. It is the next ruler of the Six Kingdoms who will need your support—though, of course, the North no longer gets a vote: you will attend and observe as an Interested Party on Sansa’s behalf._
> 
> _In any case, Arya, it is Time. You conquered Death, but Time ends us all just as profoundly. My own Winter is Coming and I shall welcome it: knowing—as I already do—what Spring brings._
> 
> _\- Bran_

Arya’s face was ashen. Gendry came at once to her side and she handed him the letter silently, her face frozen. His own high colour faded away. He looked at her searchingly, wrapping his arms tighter around Genna. Hart caught their stillness and shifting mood and depositing Brandon on the ground, strode over to them. Gendry passed him the letter. Hart’s lips firmed.

“I’m sorry. He’s a good king who’s kept us at peace. Who’ll come next?”

The three exchanged glances and Arya replied quietly, “You’ll both have some say in that. I won’t.” She swallowed.

Hart frowned, “He sounds…hopeful at the end. Why?”

Arya was peering up into the trees as if searching for something. When she found it, her eyes widened and she stomped over to the foot of a tree and began speaking upwards into the branches. “I know you’re up there watching and listening. Eavesdropping on all of us. What did you think? That I wouldn’t demand an explanation? You just send me a letter and expect me to comply without question? Wherever you go you won’t really be dead, will you? You’re just moving on, aren’t you?!” A crow was looking beadily back at her. It cocked its head and mustered up a belligerent caw. Arya yanked Needle from her hip and slashed at the air with it. “How dare you!”

Gendry watched her, his face troubled, “The same way you sometimes dream with Hero’s eyes? The King does with birds. And inside time. Don’t ask me how. It doesn’t make any sense to me. Having that ability yourself, you’ll likely understand better.”

Hart was looking at him skeptically. “Will she be alright?” he asked, inclining his head towards Arya.

Gendry handed Genna over to him and shrugged. “Best take this lot home. We’ve a journey to prepare for.” Assenting, Hart carried his daughter over to Rena who had already begun herding the children. 

The moment she plunged Needle into the tree was the moment Gendry knew he needed to intervene. Stealing up behind her, he wrapped his arms tightly around her and pulled her tightly against him. She fought, briefly, before sagging and allowing him to bolster her. There were tears of anger and sadness coursing down her cheeks. Gendry held her, his lips brushing across the top of her head until the silent sobs that shook her body eased. The crow alighted on the sword sticking out from the tree as if it were a perch, and studied them blandly. With a dip of its head in acknowledgement—seemingly of the pain it had caused—it spread its wings and soared away high into the cobalt sky. They both watched until it was out of sight. 

~

The King had gone to bed and never awoken. Almost overnight Bran the Broken became the Sleeping King and as his sister arrived at the gates of the city, he breathed his last. Ser Brienne was with him. Ever vigilant, she imparted the news to Arya immediately upon her arrival. His sudden illness had been unexpected. 

Arya showed Brienne the letter she’d received. Not wholly unexpected then. At least, not to the King himself. It was a relief that there’d been nothing she could guard against in this instance. Her king had departed this world with honour and dignity. Without violence or betrayal. But who would follow?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) I have adopted the narrative the series put forth for Ser Davos for the purposes of this story, rather than the large family he’s given in the books.  
> 2) I'm sorry this chapter takes a turn to the sad at the end.  
> 3) I so appreciate everyone's patience with me. To get so close to the end of a story and then have to wait longer than usual is a torture I didn't willingly inflict on you. The world is what it is, however, and my own series of trials meant that I needed a bit more time to get this chapter to where I needed it to be. Love and gratitude to you all for sticking with me!


	13. When You Play the Game of Thrones...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An Epilogue: a glimpse into the future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are, friends. The final installment. I'm sorry to keep you waiting for it. Life, rather painfully, got in the way.

#### King's Landing

The Great Sept of Baelor had never been restored. The Seven had never mattered to King Bran as much as the Old Gods had. His sisters never wondered at the reason: to them it seemed perfectly clear. He had, however, never publicly prioritized one faith over another. And so, the newest King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Six Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm was acclaimed, crowned, and blessed by representatives of the gods—Old and New—in the Dragon Pit, surrounded by his Lords Paramount, the old King’s council and councilors, and the thousands of smallfolk who swarmed to the capital to witness the event. 

A cheer began closest to the center dais and cascaded, rippling and swelling outwards, as the throng picked it up and spread down the gallery, out onto the walls of the Keep and beyond—through the streets of King’s Landing. Bells began to peal, as first one sept and then another picked up the chorus. It was done. Hart Baratheon, First of His Name, clasped his lady-wife’s hand, brought it to his lips (garnering another cheer from the throng at this unabashed display of love), and then raised it high. Queen Rena’s eyes sparkled merrily as she acknowledged the people with a gracious wave and an elegant tilt of her chin. Their eldest child, Genna, looked apprehensively in the direction of her grandfather—the Lord Paramount of the Stormlands—who was glowering behind them, her hand clutching at her mother’s skirts more tightly. Catching her evident apprehension, Gendry smoothed his brow and blinked solemnly at her, his mouth quirking upwards slightly. Arya saw the girl’s shoulders settle, her spine straightening as she smiled at her grandfather. However sudden this ascent was, seeing Gendry capably stem the girl’s anxiety made Arya feel her own fade in the warmth of that private moment. Hart picked Brandon and Davy up from the ground beside him and whispered to them. Beaming, the boys began waving furiously to the crowd and the smallfolk cheered even louder. 

_“Ērinis iā morghūlis,”_ Arya breathed. 

Gendry eyed her sideways, his brow furrowing again. It always made her belly quiver when he looked at her like that—as though he were looking both up at her from under his hair, and down at her from his great height. It brought back all of everything between them—from the first time he’d glowered down at Hot Pie, to the way they’d exchanged glances across The Brotherhood’s fire, to his kneeling before her begging her hand, to the way he’d look up from the fire whenever she’d seek him out in the forge for a rendezvous. “You win or you die,” she murmured, her lips scarcely moving. His eyes slid back to the scene playing out before them. She watched the apple in his throat bob as he took a hard swallow. His fist clenched at his side. Arya reached out, wrapping her hand over his, finagling her fingers until they were clasped in his. She squeezed. He squeezed back. 

“What’s the other one?” he asked with trepidation, his gazed fixed on the steps of the dias, “The one you always used to say?”

 _“Valar morghulis._ But what’s happening now? For Hart? This is: _Valar dohaeris_. All men must serve.”

As the newly-royal family turned to make their way out of the arena, the King approached his father and paused in front of him. A blush rose to his cheeks. He was a man of barely twenty-two years and he now held nearly all of Westeros in his grasp. His wife slipped something from the folds of her skirts and handed it to him. He took it and held it out, hilt first, to the woman standing beside his father. Looking down, Arya felt her heart stutter and stop. 

“I hope my lady mother will accept the token she once offered me with more grace than I accepted it. I should have given it back years ago—felt like I could have any time after Genna was born. But I wanted it to be us—just as we were—for a while longer. It can’t be that way now. Too many eyes. I’d rather own it all now and deal with the consequences than keep waiting for whatever might come.”

Arya’s eyes searched his, “Are you sure?” she asked, deadly serious. The North might take exception. Or the South might see it as an evasion—a coup—a usurpation by the North. 

Hart nodded and Rena concurred, “We’ve talked about it at length, my lady. Hart won the crown here on his own merits. Through his work on the small council as Master of Ships. His father was but one vote on a council that elected him by a landslide. The lords believe in him. If not now, when?”

Hart nodded decisively, “If I own you now, and you own me, we can negotiate together. If we were to wait it would certainly be seen as a plot. Perhaps, your sister will see the merit in…”

Arya swallowed the snort of incredulous laughter that threatened quite suddenly to overtake her stoic, faceless charade. Sansa was going to get what she’d wanted all these many years. For the first time, she could see evidence of her sister in the man—her son— _the King_ —standing before her. She’d come to terms with the ways he resembled all the others: her father, her mother, Robb, Jon, Bran, Rickon, Gendry, herself…but had never seen Sansa in him until this very moment: in his first, coldly calculating move as king. 

She took the blade from his hand and made whole the set that Gendry had gifted her at his birth; locking the clamp tightly around the reassembled trio of knives. Whatever he chose, whatever he was, he was hers. _“Ērinis iā morghūlis,”_ she said again. Hart’s brow quirked upwards as her own so often did. With a wry, determined twist of her lips Arya averred, “I guess we’d better make certain you win.”

~

#### Several Years Later…

Princess Genna Baratheon, aged thirteen, rode north on her own mount, under the care and protection of her grandparents. The Queen wanted to meet her. Properly. They’d been corresponding via raven for several years—ever since she’d first learned that she was as much an heir to House Stark as she was to House Baratheon. Glancing sideways at her grandmother she couldn’t help studying her. It was her sister they were travelling to see. Arya caught her glance and cocked her head asking, “Second thoughts?”

Genna shook her head, “I was only thinking how strange it is to be the eldest. To always have the opportunity and necessity of doing a thing first. But this time—how odd it is to know that I needn’t commit myself. That one of the others might choose this life and I won’t have to.”

Arya’s pewter eyes grew shrewd, “A lot of responsibility. My brother Robb always had a lot to live up to. Your father’s like him some. Both chose to wear the mantles they were born to. Having that choice is all any of us want for any of you.”

Gendry cleared his throat and Genna’s gaze shifted to meet his, “You’ve got those choices, sweetheart. Don’t forget that.”

Genna’s whole countenance glowed as she took in the seriousness of his blue eyes and the determined set of his mouth. Grand-Da was her favourite person in the world. That he’d chosen to make this trip alongside her made her feel more secure than any of the hundred guards that accompanied them could have done. If she hated the North, Grand-Da would bring her home and Nary would insist that he be able to. It was why both he and Nary (she’d never stopped using that nickname for her grandmother) had chosen to escort her themselves. When her father first floated the idea—that each of his children should go North and foster for a couple of years—as he had done—there had been quite a discussion amongst her elders. Papa and Mama proposed that each of their children might commit to spending two years in the North. Genna would go for a year before Brandon joined her. Then, when Davy came North, she would return to Storm’s End and put into practice what she’d learned until Brandon returned and Eleni went North. At that point, she could begin to choose what to make of her life. To stay at Storm’s End and assist Brandon, to take up duties or a cause at the court in King’s Landing, to join her life to another’s, to pursue further study, or return North. Brandon would be the only one of them without as many choices upon his return: as the eldest son, he was the acknowledged heir to Storm’s End and would remain there once he’d spent his time in the North. By the time Rya and Robb were of-an-age to go, she’d be twenty-two. Any of them might find that they loved the North and wanted to stay. Genna smirked as she thought of Davy. His only ambition was to set sail. He had an appetite for adventure that couldn’t be sated. He hung on Nary’s stories and had memorized every nook and cranny of her ship before he was six. He’d happily sail North on the Grey Wolf and then likely spend his time crewing with the Iron Born rather than learning to govern—and Rya would be just as bad. She was as much like Nary as her name suggested: diplomacy and governing would always take a backseat to tilting, archery and swordplay. It would be Eleni, herself, or Robb who would inevitably choose the Northern throne. And when whichever of them did, the whole of Westeros south of The Wall would be governed by House Baratheon-Stark. 

“ _Abrar dohaeris_ ,” she muttered under her breath, straightened her spine and settling her shoulders. 

Arya’s eye caught Gendry’s over Genna’s head. Within their silence, they were in deepest accord.

A raven flew from Oldtown to herald the arrival of Spring.

A crow squawked in the trees above them. 

And they rode North.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) Abrar = I'm given to understand means something like "everyone" or "all people" in the phrase "Abrar dohaeris."  
> 2) In my head, from the very beginning, this story always ended with Hart on the Westerosi throne. For that to happen, something had to happen to Bran. Apologies to anyone who is upset by the ambiguity/suddenness of that event.   
> 3) I wanted to maintain the beginnings of elected governance but the allure of dynasty is, in part, what has always drawn me into the series. That conflict between duty and destiny and self-determination is also a big part of what makes the characters compelling to me. Is who we are determined by us or the gods? In some ways, Hart is at the apex of all both.  
> 4) Like any dynastic drama, unless I were to commit a Red Wedding, the story does go on. Perhaps, at some later time, when life affords me more time than it does at present, and the impulse cannot be contained, I will add more. But for now, rest in the knowledge that Gendry & Arya are contented and secure in their family and Westeros is at peace under King Hart. 
> 
> THANK YOU SO MUCH for reading, for taking the time to leave me an emoji, a kudos, a short, medium, or extremely long response to a chapter or every chapter as I've posted. This story kept me focused, (reasonably) sane, and filled me with purpose during these past months of COVID quarantine. I truly, from the bottom of my heart, thank you for your support of it.   
> Stay well.  
> Much love,  
> JJ.


End file.
